I thought of the first time I had heard about Walter: a frightened boy in my hallway, grease on his clothes, saying someone was trapped under a bridge.

That memory would never completely lose its sharpness.

But it no longer contained the entire story.

On the walk home, Toby kicked through the snow and asked whether I remembered teaching him to ride his first bicycle.

I did.

He had cried after falling near the driveway, then demanded another try before I could even inspect his knee.

“You said falling wasn’t failing,” he reminded me.

“Did I?”