“How many staff are there exactly?” Lyle stopped the golf cart.
“Y’all best know Davis, or else I’m taking you downtown and having you booked for trespassing.”
We rounded a corner and I saw the pool complex, a shimmering blue expanse with the same island I remembered from my childhood,
except now it was covered by a glass-plated geodesic dome.
The waterslides—cylinders that curved and wove around one another—were still there, too, but they were dry.
On a patio beside the pool were a dozen teak lounge chairs, each with a white towel laid out atop the cushions.
We drove halfway around the pool to another patio, where Davis Pickett was reclining on a lounger.
He was wearing his school polo shirt and khaki pants, holding a book at an angle to block the sun as he read.
When he heard the cart, he sat up and looked over at us. He had skinny, sunburned legs and knobby knees.
He wore plastic-rimmed glasses and an Indiana Pacers hat. “Aza Holmes?” he asked. He stood up.
The sun was behind him, so I could hardly see his face. I got out of the golf cart and walked over to him.
“Hi,” I said. I didn’t know if I should hug him, and he didn’t seem to know if he should hug me,
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