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City,” I tell her, “and I never wear a helmet.”
    “That’s the rule,” Bitsy says as she stands up and stacks our plates.
    “Really?” I say. “You’re serious?” Of course I know that she is serious. But I have this idea that by questioning her I can make her change her mind.
    “You bet I’m serious,” she says.
    So much for my idea.
    “Okay. I’ll wear the helmet.” I will do anythingto have some time to myself. Some time alone, to think.
    “We’ll be leaving for Cochiti Lake at ten-thirty. Just be sure you’re back by then.”
    Cochiti Lake is number one on tomorrow’s agenda. Walter has taken the week off so that he can show us the sights. So far we have visited Camel Rock, Bandelier National Monument, three Indian pueblos, Taos and the D. H. Lawrence Ranch.
    But I don’t think I can make it through another day of sightseeing with the family. This is a touchy subject, and I have to approach it carefully. So I clear my throat and say, “The truth is, I’d really like to beg off tomorrow. That is, if you don’t mind.” I look around the table for reactions. I can’t tell what anyone is thinking so I continue. “I’d just like to ride around on your bicycle and maybe sunbathe on the deck …”
    It is important that I don’t insult them. They’ve been nice. But I’m sick of listening to Walter’s lectures on everything from Black Mesa to black pottery, from solar energy to nuclear energy. He talks as if he is an expert on every subject. And who knows? Maybe he is.
    Bitsy speaks first. “Well,” she says, carefully, “rest and relaxation is what we were planning for next week, when Walter goes back to the Lab.”
    “But that’s really what I need now,” I say firmly, surprising myself.
    “What do you think, Walter?” Bitsy asks.
    Walter mulls it over as if world security is at stake. “Hmmm …” he begins. I fidget with the buttons on my shirt and wait. “I think it will be all right,” he finally says, “if Davey promises to be very careful.”
    “Oh yes,” I tell them. “I’ll be very careful.”
    “Gwen …” Bitsy says, looking down the table, at Mom. “Is it all right with you?”
    “What? Oh, yes … fine,” my mother says. I get the feeling she doesn’t even know what we are talking about. She seems distracted.
    “And if Davey doesn’t come with us I get the whole back seat of the Blazer to myself, right?” Jason says.
    “Wrong!” Bitsy tells him. “I’m going to sit in the back and tickle you all the way to Cochiti.”
    “No!” Jason shrieks.
    They have this game where Bitsy threatens to tickle Jason, but she never does. Jason is wildly ticklish. He becomes hysterical if you just wiggle your fingers close to his body, hinting that he might be in for it. I once read an article that said tickling is a form of torture. I wonder if Bitsy knows that.

NINE
    The next morning I grab a piece of toast, go directly to the garage and walk Bitsy’s bicycle out into the driveway in time to see Walter shoving his gun into the back of the Blazer. I am used to this by now. The gun automatically goes into the Blazer whenever Walter leaves The Hill. And as soon as he returns, the gun is removed. I don’t know where he keeps it in the house. And I don’t want to know.
    “Bye, Uncle Walter,” I call.
    “Remember … ride with the traffic,” Walter tells me. “That’s a rule we observe on The Hill.”
    “With the traffic,” I repeat.
    “See you later, Davey.”
    “You bet,” I call as I pedal away. You bet is Walt and Bitsy’s favorite expression. Sometimes it means yes , sometimes it means you’re welcome . Other times it seems to be a substitute for okay . This is the first time I have tried it.
    As soon as I am out on Diamond Drive I stop and take off the helmet, shoving it into the canvas bike bag. I shake out my hair. There, that’s better. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Iride up Diamond Drive, past the high school. Groups of kids