For six months, my 13-year-old son told me that every check on his Saturday job would be allocated to the bike he so desired. But the bike never arrived, and Evan began to be strangely reserved with his money. Then his boss called me, asked me a question about those checks, and I grabbed the car keys.

I found out that Evan had accepted a weekend job when one night he came home smelling of fryer oil and lemon soap.

“Where have you been, buddy?”

He was paralyzed.

“Labor.”

“Where do you work?”

“Mr. Alvarez lets me help in the restaurant on Saturdays.”

I stared at it.

“Did you get a job without telling me?”

She looked down.

“I wanted to earn my bike myself, Mom.”

Six months later, there was still no bike.

Every week, when asked how much he had saved, his answer never changed.

“Almost enough.”

A week earlier, I passed his room and saw him put a handful of bills in his backpack the moment he saw me.

Another Saturday, he came home almost two hours late, with dry mud around the sneakers and a tear near a sleeve.

“What happened to him?”

“I fell while I was coming home.”

“Where’s your salary?”

She looked down.

“In a safe place.”

I studied it.

“Evan, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

I was beginning to wonder what exactly “nothing” meant when my phone rang on a Saturday afternoon.

Mr. Alvarez's name appeared on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Madam? We have to talk about Evan.”

I got up from the kitchen table.

“Did he do anything?”

“I honestly don’t know how to respond to that...”

“What does that mean?”

He paused.

He then asked, “Do you know what you do with each check?”

“He says he’s saving up to buy a bike.”

“Everything that guy tells you is a lie.”

Before I could answer, I heard Evan screaming from somewhere behind him.

“Please! Don’t tell my mom!”

Something failed.

“Evan?” I shouted.

Mr. Alvarez returned to the phone, breathing hard.

“Ma’am, come right now. His son tried to do it again.”

The line was cut.

When I rushed into the restaurant, the first thing I saw was a metal bus box overturned on the ground.

Evan was standing in the middle of the mess.

His apron was soaked, a twisted sleeve on his shoulder and his red cheeks to argue.