“Oh, wow,” I said, following her eyes to the painting in question.
A man made of wavy lines rode atop a horse made of wavy lines.
“It’s like working in a museum,” she said. I looked at her and thought about Daisy’s observation about uniforms.
“Yeah, it’s a beautiful house,” I said. “They have a Rauschenberg, too,” she said, “upstairs.”
I nodded, although I didn’t know who that was. Mychal would, probably.
“You can go and see.” She gestured toward the stairs, so I walked up,
but didn’t pause to examine the assemblage of recycled trash at the top of the staircase.
Instead, I took a quick look inside the first open door I came to.
It seemed to be Davis’s room, immaculately clean, lines still in the carpet from a vacuum cleaner.
King-size bed with lots of pillows, and a navy-blue comforter.
In a corner of the room, by a wall of windows, a telescope, pointed up toward the sky.
Pictures on his desk of his family—all from years ago, when he was little.
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