Billy was afraid of it because the wheels turned by themselves. It had hung in the barn longer than he had been alive; long enough for an old man to forget about the child-hood joy it brought him. Billy first saw it when he came looking for his grandfather. He found the old man bent over his thick wooden workbench digging through a plastic jug of nuts and bolts. With a tired grunt he straightened up. “Can never find it,” he said.

            “Find what Grandpa?”

            “Oh whatever you’re looking for,” he said as he brushed by the boy and pulled open a cabinet drawer. Billy poked his head in beside him to see, but the drawer flew shut.

            “What are you looking for?”

            “I’ll know it when I see it,” the old man said, and smiled.

            The boy kicked playfully at a pile of rags. “Grandma made lunch.”

            “Oh?” said grandpa, already starting toward the door. That is when Billy saw it. It hung directly over the doorway in the darkest shadow of the barn. Still, it was clear and obvious, an antique-of-a-bike, colored gray with age. It swayed subtly in an invisible draft, its front tire rotating slowly as if it were trying to creep down to the barn floor.

            The old man paused beneath it, his blue mesh cap only inches below the flattened tread. He took a deep breath. “It’s almost spring,” he said and drew a second breath. “It’s the freshest air you’ll get.” Then he walked out, oblivious to the bike above him.

            Billy was frozen. The old bike held him captive. The barns stagnate air filled his nose and the taste of the bike’s dust-coated mettle crept into his mouth. He wrenched his face and for a moment resolved not to pass beneath it. Realizing no other way he held a breath and darted into the cooler, cleaner air outside. Racing, he easily beat his grandfather to the house.