When Mike worked in construction his daughter, a baby, was poorly. The woman they circled, skewed. He came into half-ass skill in windows and hanging doors. The money, uneven. A judge took his license unjustly. In his forties, he fell from his bike. Not just the once. The medicine he got, wrong. Work twisted, hammers went missing, his teenager spiraled up and out. But on a given day, biking, he still oddly soared.
By Ted Jean of Milwaukie
