But I wondered whether Davis had really quit the internet entirely, or whether he’d just decamped to some farther shore.
I couldn’t pick his trail back up, though. Instead, I got stuck searching his usernames and variants of them,
and ended up meeting a lot of people who weren’t my Davis Pickett—the fifty-three-year-old Dave Pickett who was a truck driver in Wisconsin;
the Davis Pickett who’d died of ALS after years of posting short blog entries written with the help of eye-tracking software;
a Twitter user named dallgoodman whose blog was nothing but vitriolic threats directed at members of Congress.
I found a reddit account that commented on Butler basketball and so probably belonged to Davis,
but that, too, had been silent since Pickett Sr.’s disappearance.
“I’m very close,” Daisy said suddenly. “Very, very close. If only I were as good at life as I am at the internet.”
I looked up, returning to the sensorial plane of Applebee’s.
Daisy was tapping at her phone with one hand while holding her cup of water with the other.
Everything was loud and bright. At the bar, people were shouting about some sports occurrence.
“What’ve you got?” she asked me as she put down her water. “Um, Davis had a girlfriend, but they broke up last November-ish.
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