It was a bright Saturday morning, and seven-year-old Mia was learning to ride a bike in the park. Her father jogged behind her, one hand on the back of the seat, and he kept up a steady stream of encouragement. Mia, however, was not listening. All she could think about was the ground, which looked a long way down and very hard. "Don't let go!" she begged. "I won't," he promised. "I'm right behind you."
The bike swayed from side to side, but somehow Mia kept pedaling, and little by little she picked up speed. The wind rushed past her ears, the path unrolled in front of her, and without quite deciding to, she began to laugh. After a long moment, she shouted, "Papa, you're still holding, right?" Nobody answered, so she risked a glance over her shoulder.
Her father was standing a long way back, in the middle of the path, waving both arms. His hands were completely empty, and he was laughing so hard that he had to bend over. Mia wobbled alarmingly but stayed upright. She steered a wide circle around the pond and braked in front of him, out of breath. "You let go!" she accused him. "Two minutes ago," he said, beaming. Mia considered this carefully. Then she turned the bike around. "Again," she said.