So I told her. I told her that Daisy and Mychal and I had attended a one-night art show beneath downtown,
and that Daisy and I had walked to the end of Pickett’s unfinished tunnel,
and I told her about going out to the meadow, and I told her about the jogger’s mouth,
about thinking Pickett was maybe down there, about the stench.
“You’re going to tell Davis?” she asked. “Yeah.” “But not the police?” “No,” I said.
“If I tell the police, and he is dead down there, Davis and Noah’s house won’t even be theirs anymore.
It’ll be owned by a tuatara.” “A tua-what-a?” “A tuatara. It looks like a lizard, but it isn’t a lizard.
Descended from the dinosaurs. They live for like a hundred and fifty years,
and Pickett’s will leaves everything to his pet tuatara. The house, the business, everything.”
“The madness of wealth,” my mother mumbled. “Sometimes you think you’re spending money, but all along the money’s spending you.”
She glanced down at her cup of tea, and then back up to me. “But only if you worship it. You serve whatever you worship.”
“So we gotta be careful what we worship,” I said. She smiled, then shooed me off to the shower.
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