The house actually shook from the impact. Then the wail went up. I looked outside but couldn't see anything, so I ran down to double check. In the weeds beside the house, a small child holding her head and crying, a lifeless bike and a dent in the wall. I went running back in, grabbed ice packs, antiseptic wipes and bandaids, and then the little girl and her friend sat on my porch to get patched up. There was a stubbed toe that needed tending, and serious questions to be asked. "Do you have a daughter?" "How about a son?" "Are you married?" "How long have you lived here?" "My sister says that your house needs painting, are you going to paint it?" "Where's your cat?" By this time, tears had stopped flowing, explanations had been given (the bike has no brakes, so the wall of my house was the stopping mechanism) and they were off, laughing again.