And then an old man and I looked through the scrap pile in the back, sifting through lonesome reams of brake pads and spools of cable housing, orphan top tubes, wheels,tires deflated and folded over themselves like cordgrass bent beneath the bellytrail of some slow bayou beast making its way to the river. Hefting a half-built bike up to the steel stand clamp, the man said There’s only one rule: Don’t let the levee bust. Beneath his white face a longing, something thick ebbing between us. He kept a bum hand in his pocket, hobble-tripped to a bin damp with river and leaking viscous oil. The bike’s naked wheel spun in air sliced with a fan’s sharp and rollicking breath. Plumes of dust eddied in the river-soaked light, flooding our hands with nothing we could hold.