The sounds, always the four sounds. I’d been in bed for the better part of a month and they wouldn’t leave me alone. Rubber slapping rubber made a whoosh. Then metal scraping asphalt in a scream. Then his head hitting the ground with a hollow thud. Then another scream. The girl behind me. The one with the giant backpack who always took the front seat. Her innocence extinguished along with the life on the road.

But there had been no life lost that day. Yes, the motorcycle tire had clipped the front tire of my school bus. What was that pendejo thinking trying to pass me? Pendejo, a word I’d picked up when Avril’s brother took me to a game in Tijuana, the crowd of men shouting it mercilessly at the opposing goalie. Don’t repeat it in from of Avril her brother said. Stupid patriarchal homophobic machismo, she’d say—he was right—but part of our futbol culture, he said.

And yes, the rider’d gone down. Yes, the girl’s scream had rippled through the metal box, the other barely pubescent kids shaken from their devices at something happening in the real world. Yes, his leg was thrashed and the road rash was substantial. But no, he hadn’t died. Recovery and prosthetic given time. And no, it wasn’t my fault. Nothing you could do, nothing you could do. I’d heard those words from the accident investigator and the zoom therapist, Marcie, or was it Madi. She was young, younger than me, with a nose ring, the kind that went under, and pink hair. I was put on two weeks paid leave with two mandatory counseling sessions. I could only half hear her, the sounds rocketed through my head as she talked.

They alternated in emphasis. On some days, the thud was the worst, a gong inside my head, my gait unsteady as I walked to the bathroom. On others, it was the screams melding into one, as if hot metal flew from the girl’s voice. And in the moments between consciousness and sleep, the rubber sound would resonate, the promise of the cycle restarting, icy heat on my neck, my balls in my stomach.

I could request more sessions. For what? How can a man who’s hearing things be fit to drive a bus?

There were realities to confront. I’d only been at it six months and I was now out of vacation time. Rent was due in two weeks. Avril insisted on paying half even though my salary was much more than her PhD stipend. My savings would cover my half for a month or two, but that was it.

Avril had been everything and more. She’d fed me, rubbed my back, played The Gypsy Kings to push back against the sounds. But I see could the strain in her eyes. When? When? I’d tried normal. Two weeks in she’d driven me to the pool—no way I was getting behind the wheel. I’ll run some errands while you do your laps she said. I tried. Or maybe I did. I pushed back the sounds and put my suit on. I got into the water, the usual lifeguard giving me a smile. But I was heavy, so heavy. My arms were lead, my legs concrete. I dogpaddled to the ladder and hauled myself up. Then I sat in the sauna until she came to pick me up. She was smiling. It was okay I said, kinda hard. That’s normal she said, you’ll get it back. Can I take you out to lunch, she said. I had to say no, all I wanted was bed.

A week later she got into bed with me naked, her toned body firm against mine. I wanted to but I couldn’t. It was a screaming day. She tried for a while then got up without saying anything. She came back –dressed in court clothing. I got a game she said. She loved Padel, a strange racket game popular in Europe. For her birthday I’d used half a paycheck to get her a six month membership. She was so happy. She told me I should join. I’m a swimmer I said. I went to watch once. All those Italian men with their perfect hair and smooth accents. But I wasn’t really worried. Avril told me from the go, if she had a problem with me, she’d be gone and she expected the same in return.

I wasn’t worried then. But now? She hinted at other jobs, asked me if I could get my old job back. Bowling alley repair guy. It was a good job but so boring. It was also loud, always loud. Maybe loud enough to beat back the sounds.

I looked at my phone, tomorrow would be a month. I would get up then. I would shower, I would shave. I would drive the car. I would call the school district and tell them what I was going to do. I would look for other jobs if need be. I would –

“Frankie!!!”

My cousin Temo. We were both only children so we were like brothers. He was the only one who called me that. It’d been so long I forgot where he got it from. Some TV show maybe.

Fuck, he was here. Last week he came by and told me to man up. All while looking at Avril like a wolf eying a rabbit. He wanted her bad. She’d had to elbow him in the ribs—hard—when he’d put his hand on her thigh at the sushi bar a while back. As if I wasn’t on the other side of her. And now he was here. Was I?

“Get your ass up, Nana’s here.” Nana, our Nana? Our Nana didn’t leave the house. Or hadn’t since Uncle Lucky’s third wedding which was—“Jesus, it stinks in here. Get the fuck up.” Temo burst into room, filling it with cologne and nervous energy. “Wash your ass!” He beat his palm against his thigh—he was always doing shit like that – and glared at me. “She wants to see you. I’ll bring her to the living room.” He beat his leg harder.

I got up. And did wash my ass. And face. And put on a button-down shirt and chinos. Nana was here.

She was in the hardback chair next to the loveseat. Avril had brought her a glass of water. She and Temo flanked Nana like sentinels in front of the magistrate. “Sit,” Nana said, gesturing to the love seat.

“I think we’d better go,” Temo’s voice cracked as if he were fourteen again. He shot Avril a look. She nodded. I heard the front door shut as I sat.

I looked at Nana. Though I’d never been scared of her like Temo, for a woman a shade under five feet she was imposing. Her steel grey eyes matched the shock of hair which flowed to her waist. She wore a blue blouse and yellow track pants that looked new but then again, I hadn’t seen her in a month. Avril had seen her and of course Temo’s mouth ran like diarrhea so she had to know what was going on with me. She rubbed her left knee. I knew this outing had to be an exertion for her, her physical health had not been good for some time. She opened her mouth but only to let her tongue trace her bottom lip as if she’d left a drop of hot sauce there. Then she took a drink of water. Then she spoke.

“Do you know how many bombs the United States dropped on us?” I’d heard the statistic many times but couldn’t remember the exact number. I shook my head. “A lot,” she said, “way more than they dropped in Vietnam and we weren’t even at war with them according to the history books. Ever heard of the ‘Laos War’?” Again, I shook my head. “Now I live in this goddamn country. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I don’t either. I’m just an old woman trying to stay alive. I don’t know why that either.” I wanted to say or do something but I didn’t. She wasn’t a hugging type of Nana. “You know,” she went on, “it’s been fifty years, but I still hear those bombs. Every day.”

“You never me told me that,” I said. “It sounds awful.”

“You get used to it. Not as awful as the ones I can’t hear. There’s always bombs. They just move around the world.” She shook her head. I’d been mostly tuned out but knew enough to know the situation in Gaza was bad. Nana watched the news faithfully.

“It’s terrible,” I said.

“You like those kids?”

“Kids?” I said, thinking about Gaza.

“Kids on the bus,” she said, her tone impatient.

“Oh, yes, I like them.” It was true. I missed them and their crazy middle school energy.

“Get me my bag,” she pointed toward the kitchen.

On the counter, I expected to see her lime green purse but instead there was a larger black bag, like a small airplane carry-on. Nana hadn’t flown in decades. It was heavier than I thought it would be and I placed it gently in her lap. She opened it slowly and presented me with an oddly narrow shoebox, some brand I didn’t know, maybe women’s heels. I turned it over trying to understand. “Open it,” she said.

The lid was snug and I almost dropped it. Then I almost dropped it again when I saw what was inside. Bills, crisp $100 bills, five small bricks each one with a rubber band around it. I looked up at my Nana.

“50 K,” Nana said. “Your inheritance. And from Pop-pop too.” My grandfather had died about five years before. Then she must have read my mind because she added, “I’m not dead, but I think you need it now.” She went on, “Don’t worry about Temo”—this mind-reading was getting freaky –“he’ll get his when he needs it. He doesn’t need it now.” That was true. Temo was managing a successful Jiffy Lube franchise and doing quite well, the quickness implied in the business a perfect match for his personality.

“I don’t know what to say. I mean, thank you.” My throat felt dry, the box heavy in my hands.

“It’s okay. I was thinking,” now she rubbed her other knee, “if you like those kids so much, maybe you should go to teacher school.”

I stared at this woman, the woman responsible for 25% of my DNA. Not only had she managed to put away 100K, but she seemed to know my thoughts as well as I did. A few weeks before the accident, Avril and I had discussed my entering a credential program after she finished her doctorate. I had an English degree and an education minor, maybe I’d enjoy teaching middle schoolers as much as driving them around. “Yeah,” I said.

“And think about a ring,” she said, taking a glance at the simple gold band on her shriveled finger. I knew she thought Avril was above my league and that I should propose to her as soon as possible. “Well then, that’s it,” Nana said. “I’m tired now, can you drive me home? And go to the bank after, no good to have all this cash lying around.” For the first time, she gave me the smallest hint of a smile.

I looked over at the kitchen. The car keys were on the hook. I thought about getting behind the wheel. The sounds started, all of them. I put the box down next to me and stood slowly, my knees shook a bit. I closed my eyes as if that would block out the screaming. I saw something falling. Oblong objects. Balloons? No, that wasn’t right. Then it came to me. Bombs. My Nana’s bombs were falling inside my eyelids. Soundlessly. I opened my eyes. Nana was safe, looking at me expectantly.

I bent down and kissed her cheek. “Yes, I can drive you.”