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anywhere pressing to be, really, being twelve, but the two of us liked to go out in Dad’s car, buy junk food, and goof around. Rory was a nervous kid, a bit of a loner, and I liked taking him out with me. The first time I drove him somewhere, I asked if he wanted to shift the gears. He looked at me with disbelief, like I’d offered him my bank account.
    â€œReally? You’re gonna let me change gears?” he asked. “But I don’t know how.”
    â€œI’ll tell you which gear and when. Maybe I’ll let you steer a little, too, If you want.”
    His face told me that I was now more than his older brother. I was Santa Claus, and perhaps superhuman. Then his nervousness overtook him, as it always did. “But what if we get in an accident?” he said.
    â€œJesus, would you relax? We won’t get in an accident. I’ll be in control. I’m trying to offer you some fun here. Don’t be such a suck.”

    â€œI’m not being a suck. I just don’t wanna get in trouble.”
    â€œThat’s why you’re a suck. We’re supposed to get in trouble sometimes. I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to teach you this kind of stuff. Relax, for chrissake.”
    With Dad’s car I’d tried to become the older brother I’d always wanted, the one who taught his kid brother how to smoke, light a bottle rocket, and drive a stick-shift. Sharing the car with Rory quickly built that kind of trust and friendship between us. We started to become real brothers there.
    After that, Rory always wanted a lift somewhere. This time, when he asked at dinner for a ride, my mother informed him that the Rock King would be on foot for a while.
    â€œWho’s the Rock King?” Rory asked.
    My father pointed his fork at me but didn’t explain my new title.
    Rory found it hilarious. “Ryan is the Rock King,” he sang, “king of the rocks, the one who rocks out on top!” He wanked on an air guitar, repeating my new name, and made pouty, guitar-solo faces.
    The name stuck for weeks and ridiculed my story. I heard the doubt. My excuse sounded like a cartoon to my parents. Today they insist they believed me, but today I’m a blind guy whose diagnosis made sense of the rocks that punched a hole under the driver’s seat, among other things. Holes in the eyes, holes in the car, and more holes in the stories.
    From that moment on, I wasn’t allowed to drive my father’s car at night, not until, he said, I was a more experienced
driver. As it turned out, I would only drive a car once more in the dark. That’s when I crashed for the last time.
    Most accidents might not have given away my growing blindness. They would look too much like accidents other people could have. A missed sign, a poorly judged turn, a distracted change of lanes, too much speed. My final accident had a character unto itself, though, one that we couldn’t name clumsiness or inexperience. Speed was a factor, but not in a way anyone could understand.
    I remember the sound of my mother marching down the hall to find out what my father and I were arguing about. At three o’clock in the morning, most debates a seventeen-year-old boy could be having with his father won’t be going very far. Mine was no exception. My girlfriend was waiting outside on the porch, which didn’t help my chances.
    â€œBut she’s lost her keys,” I explained, “and nobody’s home, or at least nobody answered when she rang the bell a few times. She can’t just sleep on the lawn, right? So I said she should walk home with me and stay overnight here. I thought you’d be cool about it.” Some sarcasm, I felt, might add colour here. “But I guess turning her out will be better.”
    Dad didn’t flinch. I braved one more shot.
    â€œI guess I was wrong to think you’d understand.”
    As the words left my mouth, I saw their stupidity and