We’d beach the canoe and walk around for a bit, then paddle back home against the lazy current.
But I hadn’t been down to the water in years. The White River is beautiful in the abstract—
blue herons and geese and deer and all that stuff—but the actual water itself smells like human sewage.
Actually, it doesn’t smell like human sewage; it smells of human sewage, because whenever it rains,
the sewers overflow and the collective waste of Central Indiana dumps directly into the river.
We pulled into my driveway. I got out, walked to the garage door, squatted down, wriggled my fingers under the door, and then lifted it up.
I got back into the car and parked, while Daisy kept telling me we were going to be rich.
The garage door exertion had gotten me sweating a bit, so when I got inside I headed straight for my room and turned on the window AC unit,
sat cross-legged on my bed, and let the cold air blow against my back.
My room was a cluttered mess, with dirty clothes everywhere and a spill of papers—worksheets, old tests, college pamphlets Mom brought home—
that covered my desk and also sort of spread out along the floor.
Daisy stood in the doorway. “You got any clothes around here that would fit me?” she asked.
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