Short Fuse

As he rebuilt his mini-bike, I stepped into the garage.
“Get out!” said Mark, not looking up.
“I don’t have to,” I said. “It’s my garage too. I can be here if I want.”
The exchange intensified. I threatened to tell Mom. Infuriated, he yelled: “I’m going to pound you!”
I delivered my below-the-belt taunt: “I’m a faster runner than you, so good luck catching me!”
Looking wounded, he seethed: “Only because I broke my leg in the first grade!”
I sprinted across our front lawn. Mark was close behind, but I was not afraid. I had gotten his goat, which was fiendishly exhilarating, and that was all that mattered.