When he was five, King’s grandfather had bought him his first bicycle without training wheels. They were living in Vienna at the time, and as it turned out, bikes and centuries-old cobblestones don’t mix, so King had fallen and scraped his elbow. No matter how many times his mother washed the wound, he could always feel a little piece of grit under his skin. They said it was in his head, but King knew better. It was a part of him now, and he’d either have to cut it out or learn to live with it. That was how it felt when he met Alex Sterling.
