"We’ve been using them ... there’s not always gasoline ... I’ll get the key. They’re in the linen room. The tires are new. Lena has used one bike for a while. I guess a little oil might help--if we can find any oil." Key in hand, Claude led Jean and Orville to a small windowless room, behind the kitchen; as Bichain unlocked the door, Orville felt her face against his; his mouth sought hers. The door unlocked with a pop, letting out the smell of soap and fabric. "We kept our bikes in our barn," Jean said, following Orville inside. "Big barn?" "Three cow barn." Bare light bulbs illuminated shelves of household things. "There they are," said Claude. "How are the tires?" Jean asked. "Enough air? Hmm, this one’s hard enough." "How about the rear wheel?" Orville asked. He checked the tire and checked the hand brakes as Claude tried another bike, other tires. "Let’s go," Orville said. "Where?" "The park ... along the Nonette." "Okay." As he wheeled a bike outside, Orville put together other rides, alone, or with Lena, or with Marcel or some school pal ... no details, just the realization that there had been so many pleasant rides, sun and countryside, picking apples, birds in hedges, chickens and dogs. "I’ve got a good bike," Jean said. "I don’t want a girl’s bike," Orville said. "Okay." Laughing, she mounted and was first away from the house, wishing they could ride a dozen times, ride to nearby places, Senlis maybe: France was bike country: and war controls were lax around Ermenonville. "I’ll lead the way," she sang out. "Let’s ride along the Nonette, to the forest..." He had a British bike, hers was Swiss; both were scarred, squeaky at the fenders, slack-chained; with worn hand grips. They rode side by side down a slight slope, willows along one side, the four turrets of the château visible. The Petit Lac winked a blue wink. Tiled roofs sloped about a stand of chestnuts; a weather vane rose above trees; someone, at a dilapidated farm, had a pen jammed with swine and the swine squealed as the bikers rode past. The Nonette’s rows of willows appeared copper grey--cloud shadowed. The river had a few white swans at a curve and beyond the curve some men were rowing in a white rowboat. The water slid under a stone bridge and they biked across the bridge and followed a cobbled road. "It’s rough," Jean said. "Ride slowly." "It’s the best we can do." On the bike road the wagon-car-truck ruts had tall grass between them; the surface was smooth; his handlebars looked down on her squatty ones as they peddled. He thought her dress amusingly sedate, hardly a dress for cycling, but then she hadn’t planned to ride. "When did you ride a bike last?" "I dunno ... years ago, I guess."