When I was little, I knew a boy who used a wheelchair instead of legs. When we turned into men, he moved away, to Wisconsin, a safe and snowy state, and brought his wheelchair along. We would sit on his house's red slate roof and toss rocks, lift our legs up under the gutter and flutter them back and forth like wings. I carried him there, through the rancid rotted attic, his small broken body bent in my strong arms. Up there, the wind tearing at our hair, we would stare at the blue sky and scream. In my head, I would pummel clouds to the ground with the beat of my bony brittle fists.