Forgive me if this comes out all wrong. It's been a while.

Though I've gone over this day so many times in my head, I've never put it into words before. So many things from my childhood have faded, but this one moment remains bright and clear.

It was the day after my 8th birthday. Or maybe it was my 9th? Either way, I had just gotten a new bike—actually new, not just 'new to me' like the rusty hunk of junk that I had previously inherited from one of my older cousins. I remember the bike vividly. I had never felt such pride. It was beautiful in a gleaming ruby red with white-walled tires and glittering streamers sticking out the ends of the handles.

On my birthday, I hadn't been allowed to ride it. Well, no, that wasn't quite true. I did ride it a little bit as a little show for all the gathered family—mom and dad, both pairs of grandparents, all my aunts and uncles, and a hefty handful of cousins. They all stood on the front lawn as I pedaled up and down the street, back and forth, cheering me on like it was something worth watching.

But that didn't count.

That wasn't a real ride.

A real ride was speeding down the back roads that wove between the farms that circled my small hometown. My scrawny legs were pumping as hard as they could, fast enough to kick up the sun-choked dirt. My neighbor was rattling alongside me on my old bike, puffing and panting with all the effort it took to keep up with me.

Thinking about it now, we should've taken the rattle as a warning, but I was too focused on our unequal race.

Our finish line was the last crossroads before the mountain and we were closing in fast. I remember my legs starting to ache from the effort. I didn't understand how my neighbor, so much smaller than me, could keep up on that old hunk of metal. She seemed propelled by determination alone.

Then I heard a noise. I'll never forget it. A sharp metal keening and a cry. When I looked back, all I caught was my friend flying over her handlebars and landing with a crunch. She tumbled down into the ditch on the side of the road, disappearing into the tall grass.

I immediately skidded to a stop and turned around, dropping my prized bike at the edge of the road before wading into the grass to find her. I found her quickly enough. She was sobbing, whimpering for her mom. She had been scraped up real good, and her arm was bent twice... once at the elbow and once in the middle of her forearm.

It didn't take a genius—and I was never that smart of a kid—to figure out something was wrong.

I knew I had to get help. She begged for me to stay with her, but I knew it was the only way. This was a time before every toddler had their own cell phone, y'know. There were only landlines back then. I had to find a house.

The houses out in the country were few and far between, but I had seen one about a mile back. It had been painted a bright sunshine yellow. That's why I remembered it. I had never seen a house painted that color before. I remember thinking I'd like to paint my own house that color one day, but I never did...

Anyway, I ran back to my bike and started back the way we came, shouting promises to return. In my panic, the fields on either side of the road seemed to stretch on forever. But soon enough, I rounded a bend, and, like the sun over the horizon, the yellow house came into view. I skidded into their driveway, nearly toppling myself. I hoped someone was home, but I quickly decided if there wasn't, I'd bust in and apologize after. They'd understand. They were country folk, after all, they had to understand necessity.

I ditched my bike next to the large tree that leaned close to the house and clomped up the porch. At first glance, it did seem like someone was home. There was a radio playing soft music somewhere inside, and the door was open, leaving only the screen. But when I pounded on the doorframe, no one came. I called out, too, but still no answer.

So, as I told myself I would, I let myself in. I called out a few more times as I raced around the house, looking for the phone. The house was neat and tidy but well lived in, as though someone had just stepped out. And maybe they had. But I didn't have time to admire it. I found the phone on the wall in the pantry, hung high on the wall. It was old, real old, and I just hoped it worked as I pulled the receiver off the hook and yanked on it until I got an operator.

The woman who answered on the other end sounded annoyed to hear a kid's voice, but she quickly thawed once I told her what had happened. I don't remember much of what was said beyond that, but she got the point. I was assured someone would come find us as soon as possible and told me that I should go back and sit with my friend.

And so that's what I did. As I ran out, I shouted my thanks to the owners of the yellow house, wherever they might've been. I hopped back on my bike and sped out of there without even a look back over my shoulder.

By the time I got back, my friend had climbed out of the ditch and was sitting on the road. Her tears had dried, drawing lines in the dust on her cheeks. I told her help was coming, and she just nodded. She had calmed down enough to feign being strong, though I knew her well enough to know it was an act.

For quite a while, we sat on the road with only the wind as conversation as I tried not to look at her bent arm. We perked up when we saw a distant dust cloud on the road. That meant a car was coming.

But it wasn't just one car. It was three. The town's sheriff had come, and my neighbor's mom and my dad, each in their own cars. A whole damn caravan. Word got around fast in our town.

From there, everything was a blur. My neighbor started crying again at the sight of her mom, and the sheriff had so many questions. They calmed down once they realized we were pretty much okay. Then, without much discussion, we were loaded into the cars and shuttled away.

On the ride back, when things were quiet again, Dad told me he was proud. He said I kept my head on my shoulders, like a big kid would, and I remember beaming with pride. Then he asked whose house I had visited to use their phone. He'd like to thank them, he said. It was only polite.

So, I told him about the yellow house. How it seemed like someone was home, but they never answered me, and how I had to let myself in to use the phone.

Dad nodded—he understood the necessity, too—but seemed bothered. 

"You sure it was yellow?" he said.

I said I was sure because I was.

His face got all tense, then. He told me there weren't any yellow houses on this road. Not anymore.

That was strange to me. Dad knew pretty much everyone in town. Surely he would know a house that yellow.

Dad shrugged. Maybe they had painted it recently, he said. Maybe he had missed it. He was not above being wrong. He was sure we'd find it. He told me to watch the side of the road and point it out to him as we got close.

So I waited, keeping my eyes fixed out my window, watching for the bend in the road. We found it soon enough, and I straightened up, anticipating the yellow house like the sun on the horizon.

Only the yellow house wasn't there. Instead, there was only a blackened shell perched on top of the hill. It had once been a house, sure, many years ago... before the large tree out front had split in half, part of it falling through the roof. From that point, a fire had consumed them both, leaving a grim black silhouette at the end of an overgrown driveway.

Dad noticed that I had gone real still. He pulled over and asked me if I was okay, thinking I was still shaken up from the situation. I tried to explain, but it didn't come out right. I had been so sure that this was where we would find the yellow house.

Dad comforted me then, telling me that I had been under lots of stress and maybe I had just remembered wrong. He told me that happened to his buddies from the war, too. Sometimes details get mixed up when bad things happen. He suggested we should just head home for the day, let me rest, and we'd go looking for the oblivious Samaritan another day. He promised me ice cream. I agreed 'cause what else could I do?

As we pulled away, I caught one last glimpse of that blackened house. There was an edge, a corner, that hadn't been burned. And there, faint and flaking, was sunshine yellow paint clinging to the last remnants of wood. A chill ran through me. I looked back at Dad to point it out but Dad's face was all tight. He was staring straight ahead like he didn't want to look at the house or me. So I kept quiet and let it all fade from view.

We never did go looking for the house again.

I think we both knew we had already found it.

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