“A hundred thousand dollars,” Daisy said. “And you know his kid.” “Knew,” I said.
For two summers, after fifth and sixth grades, Davis and I had gone to Sad Camp together,
which is what we’d called Camp Spero, this place down in Brown County for kids with dead parents.
Aside from hanging out together at Sad Camp, Davis and I would also sometimes see each other during the school year,
because he lived just down the river from me, but on the opposite bank. Mom and I lived on the side that sometimes flooded.
The Picketts lived on the side with the stone-gabled walls that forced the rising water in our direction.
“He probably wouldn’t even remember me.” “Everyone remembers you, Holmesy,” she said.
“That’s not—” “It’s not a value judgment. I’m not saying you’re good or generous or kind or whatever.
I’m just saying you’re memorable.” “I haven’t seen him in years,” I said.
But of course you don’t forget playdates at a mansion that contains a golf course, a pool with an island, and five waterslides.
Davis was the closest thing to a proper celebrity I’d ever encountered.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” Daisy said again. We pulled onto I-465, the beltway that circumscribes Indianapolis.
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