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Carl Robinette And Jon just wanted to go skateboarding. He was down in the dry flats of a concrete wash at the new spot he’d found a few weeks prior. A bead of blood streaked down his forearm from a freshly reopened scab on his elbow. Skateboarding was a blood sport, an art form of bone and pain and push-through. He threw down and charged the line he’d been hitting hard for the past hour. He’d been making most of his tricks all morning, but he felt off his game. He wasn’t sure how or why. He stood there in