The bicycle resting against the rusty gate to the land of the dead changed for each rider. Sometimes it was bright blue with white stripes racing along the frame, the type of bike that stood dressed in a shiny, red bow next to the tree on Christmas morning. Sometimes it was yellow with a wicker basket hanging off the front and a cracked white banana seat. Sometimes it was purple, streamers trailing from the handlebars and pink flower-shaped beads clicking and clacking on the spokes. Most of the time, the bicycle had two wheels, although sometimes it had three, and sometimes it had training wheels.

          Everyone who came to the gate to the land of the dead arrived on foot, and everyone who passed through the gate into the land of the dead did so on the bicycle. Old men and women arrived in a slow, laborious fashion, leaning heavily on a walking stick and pausing every few steps to catch their breath. When they saw the bicycle, their faces would break into a slow smile. I always offered assistance, but they would wave me away, laying down their walking sticks to swing a creaking leg over the frame that had been out of style for nearly half a century. They’d be wobbly for the first couple feet, veering left, then sharply to the right, but even in the land of the dead, riding a bike was a skill you couldn’t forget. In the amount of time it would take me to raise my hand in farewell, they would steady themselves and vanish down the road, leaving nothing but their walking sticks in their wake.

          Middle-aged folk usually scoffed at the bicycle. I’ve still got some living to do, they would inform me. I don’t have time to ride a bike. The bicycle wore its most boring face for them, a no-fuss, no-muss contraption with forgettable gray or green or crimson paint. Still, even as they argued, they would gravitate toward the bike. They would walk it at first, as if trying to delay the inevitable, pausing every couple feet to toe the dirt or glance back over a shoulder. Finally, they would give in, climbing onto the bike and pedaling away.

          Teenagers always arrived out of breath, as if they had sprinted to the gate or had arrived in the middle of stomach-splitting laughter. They would look at me with too-wide eyes, their faces a shade paler than they had ever been in the land of the living, and they would ask questions about the bike, crouching down to examine the tires for leaks or adjusting and readjusting the seat height. They rarely admitted to being afraid, but they spoke the fast, nervous speech of someone who needed to fill the silence. I would listen, holding the bike steady as they made unnecessary tweaks. They never asked for more time, instead trying to steal it in bits and pieces. When they would finally ride away, it would be done quickly and recklessly, just as they had ridden in the land of the living, because even in the land of the dead, teenagers thought themselves immortal.

          On the day the little girl with pigtails arrived, the bike was electric pink, the kind of color that was almost painful to look at when the sun hit it. Its two wheels were pure white, a first-day-of-school-tennis-shoes color before any playground dirt had a chance to stain them. She was chewing on the knuckle of her middle finger, and as she looked up at me with big, brown eyes, I waited for one of the usual heartbreaking questions: Where’s my mom? How do I get home? Who is coming to get me? But instead she pointed at the bike.

          “I’ve never ridden one of those before.”

          “A bike?”

          “A two-wheeler.” Her gaze bore into the bicycle, and she reached out to run a chubby finger along the crossbar. “Daddy said he would teach me next weekend. He already took the training wheels off my bike. He said it’s time to ride a big-girl bike.” She glanced back up at me. “My bike looks just like this one. Except mine has a license plate right here,” she pointed beneath the back of the seat, “and it says my name in red letters. My best friend Lani got it for me for my birthday last year.”

          “What’s your name?” I asked. It was a question I never asked. I helped with the bicycle, and then I waited for the next person. The bicycle was my business; names were not.

          “Hannah. With two H’s, one at the front and one at the back. There’s another Hanna in my class, but she spells her name with just one H. We have to go by our initials. I’m Hannah K., and she’s Hanna W.”

          I tried not to think about the fact that Hanna W. would just be “Hanna” when she returned to school next year. Instead, I grabbed the handlebars, raising the bike to a standing position. “Riding a bike isn’t that hard,” I told Hannah, having to clear my throat. I never spoke this much. “You’ve ridden with training wheels already, right? It’s not much different.”

          “But I never fall with training wheels,” she pointed out, talking around the knuckle that had made its way back to her mouth.

          I hesitated, looking first in the direction from which she’d come and then in the direction she needed to go. “Hop on,” I sighed, gripping the seat right where she said her name tag was supposed to be.

          “Daddy said he would teach me next weekend,” she repeated, as if I could possibly forget the promise her father would never get to keep.

          “Why don’t I help for right now?” I offered, and after a brief hesitation, she stood. The bike shook as she climbed on, and even though I couldn’t see her face, I could hear her sharp intake of breath. “Ready?” I asked, and she nodded. “Start pedaling.” I took a couple steps forward, watching as Hannah’s feet found the pedals and her grip tightened on the handlebars. “Nice and slow,” I coaxed, walking with her as she slowly moved her legs up and down. The bike crept along the dirt road at a snail’s pace, wobbling in a way that indicated it would most certainly fall if I let go. Hannah’s shoulders were tense, shaking as we traveled a couple feet. “Want to go a little faster?” She nodded again. I started jogging, the bike finally feeling steady in my hand. “I’m going to let go now, okay?” I whispered, letting go just as Hannah shrieked.

          “No!” She jerked hard to the left, causing the bike to topple and sending her sprawling to the ground. When she sat up, tears stained her face and blood trickled from her knee.

          “Hannah?” I crouched down next to her as she rubbed away her tears with grimy hands, leaving streaks of mud across her cheeks.

          “I’m scared.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but I knew what she meant. Riding a bike was the least of her fears right now.

          “I know.” There wasn’t anything else I could say, no way I could possibly make it better.

          She took in a deep, shuddering breath, then stood up. “Again.”

          I held the bike steady again as she climbed back on. “Ready?” I asked a second time, and she looked up at me with an intensity that matched her words.

          “Ready.”

          I started walking, hands once again on the seat, and Hannah started pedaling. Her legs moved faster and faster until I was jogging, and then running to keep up. Dust kicked up all around us. Trees flew past in a blur. I knew it was time to let go, but I held on for just a moment longer before she was finally going too fast, and the pearly white seat slipped out of my grip.

          “Don’t let go,” she called, but she was already halfway down the road. I could just barely hear her squeal of delight as she cheered, “I’m doing it!” before she disappeared over the horizon.

          I turned around, wiping the sweat from my forehead and heading back toward the gate. The bicycle was back, faded orange this time with checker-printed handlebars and a baseball card in the spokes.

          The bicycle resting against the rusty gate to the land of the dead changed for each rider.