“Try, try,” Jordan said as he opened the gate and his guest wheeled out the old motorbike. Clyde knew he didn’t have the heft to start it—it was one of those old kinds of motorbikes, one that needed three hundred pounds of kick, and then would only grudgingly come alive. Jordan smiled as Marcus winced at the weight of it, rolling it across the stones. His dog jumped and chased for a moment, wondering what was going on, then got bored. Clyde finished his coffee and put the empty cup on the fence post. The dog had found a neighbourhood friend, a black mastiff or something like that—they circled for a moment, following each other’s scents then began jumping at each other as Marcus came down on the starter again and again. Jordan was beginning to chuckle at Marcus’ red face, glowing eyes, the frown of determination, and the morning light was making smoke of the upset dust in the wake of the two dogs’ playing—a roiling, hovering grey cast of light and shadow—entering, twisting, involute and infinite. Inside the dogs danced on hind legs, bit playfully, silent in the sudden and lasting roar of the old motorbike’s engine, in the sound of the bold, wonderfully manic, wonderfully celebratory laughter.