Daisy looked back at me and smiled with her mouth closed. Being on the river made me feel little again.
As kids, Daisy and I had played all up and down the riverbank when the water was low like this.
We played a game called “river kids,” imagining we lived alone on the river, scavenging for our livelihood
and hiding from the adults who wanted to put us in an orphanage.
I remembered Daisy throwing daddy longlegs at me because she knew I hated them, and I’d scream and run away,
flailing my arms but not actually scared, because back then all emotions felt like play,
like I was experimenting with feeling rather than stuck with it.
True terror isn’t being scared; it’s not having a choice in the matter.
“You know this river is the only reason Indianapolis even exists?” Daisy said. She turned around in the canoe to face me.
“So, like, Indiana had just become a state, and they wanted to build a new city for the state capital, so everybody’s debating where it should be.
The obvious compromise is to put it in the middle. So these dudes are looking at a map of their new state and they notice there is a river right here,
smack in the center of the state, and they’re like —boom—perfect place for our capital,
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