“Or exactly equal to nothing, if they don’t find him.”

“Yeah, but it’s evidence. We should at least get part of the reward.”

“If they find him.”

“Crook gets caught. We get paid. I don’t see why you’re waffling here, Holmesy.”

Just then, my phone buzzed. “I have to go,” I said, and hung up.

I’d gotten a text from Davis: I used to think you should never be friends with anyone who just wants to be near your money or your access or whatever.

I started typing a response, but then another text came in. Like, never make a friend who doesn’t like YOU.

I started to type again, but saw the . . . that meant he was still typing, so I stopped and waited. But maybe the money is just part of me. Maybe that’s who I am.

A moment later, he added: What’s the difference between who you are and what you have? Maybe nothing.

At this point I don’t care why someone likes me. I’m just so goddamned lonely. I know that’s pathetic. But yeah.

I’m lying in a sand trap of my dad’s golf course looking at the sky. I had kind of a shitty day. Sorry for all these texts.

I got under the covers and wrote him back. Hi.

Him: I told you I was bad at chitchat. Right. That’s how you start a conversation. Hi.

Me: You’re not your money.

Him: Then what am I? What is anyone?

Me: I is the hardest word to define.

Him: Maybe you are what you can’t not be.

Me: Maybe. How’s the sky?

Him: Great. Huge. Amazing.

Me: I like being outside at night. It gives me this weird feeling, like I’m homesick but not for home. It’s kind of a good feeling, though.

Him: I am drenched in that feeling at the moment. Are you outside?

Me: I’m in bed.

Him: Light pollution makes naked eye stargazing suck here, but I can see all eight stars in the Big Dipper right now, if you include Alcor.

Me: What was shitty about your day?

I watched the . . . and waited. He wrote for a long time, and I imagined him typing and deleting, typing and deleting.

Him: I’m all alone out here, I guess.

Me: What about Noah?

Him: He’s all alone, too. That’s the worst part. I don’t know how to talk to him. I don’t know how to make it stop hurting. He’s not doing any homework. I can’t even get him to take a shower regularly. Like, he’s not a little kid. I can’t MAKE him do stuff.

Me: If I knew something...like, something about your dad? And I told, would that make it better or worse?

He was typing for a long time. Much worse, came the reply at last.

Me: Why?

Him: Two reasons: If Noah can be eighteen or sixteen or even fourteen when he has to watch his father go to jail, that will be better than it happening when he’s thirteen. Also, if Dad gets caught because he tries to contact us, that will be okay. But if he gets caught despite NOT reaching out to us, Noah will be completely crushed. He still thinks our dad loves us and all that.

For a moment, and only for a moment, I entertained the notion that Davis might’ve helped his father disappear. But I couldn’t see Davis as his father’s accomplice.

Me: I’m sorry. I won’t say anything. Don’t worry.

Him: Today is our mom’s birthday, but Noah barely knew her. It’s all just so different for him.

Me: Sorry.

Him: And the thing is, when you lose someone, you realize you’ll eventually lose everyone.

Me: True. And once you know that, you can never forget it.

Him: Clouds are blowing in. I should go to bed. Good night, Aza.

Me: Good night.

I put the phone on my bedside table and pulled my blanket up over me, thinking about the big sky over Davis and the weight of the covers on me, thinking about his father and mine. Davis was right: Everybody disappears eventually.

EIGHT

DAISY WAS STANDING NEXT TO MY PARKING SPOT when Harold and I arrived at school the next morning. Summer doesn’t last in Indianapolis, and even though it was still September, Daisy was underdressed for the weather in a short-sleeve top and skirt.

“I have a crisis,” she announced once I was out of the car. As we walked through the parking lot, she explained. “So last night, Mychal called to ask me out, and I could’ve handled myself via text but you know I get nervous on the phone, plus I remain unsure Mychal can handle all . . . this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at herself. “I am willing to give the giant baby a chance. But in a flustered moment, not wanting to commit to a full-on proper date, I may have suggested he and I go on a double date with you and Davis.”

“You did not,” I said.

“And then he was, like, ‘Aza said she wasn’t looking for a relationship,’ and I was, like, ‘Well, she already has a crush on this dude who goes to Aspen Hall,’ and then he was, like, ‘The billionaire’s kid,’ and I was, like, ‘Yeah,’ and then he was, like, ‘I can’t believe I got fake rejected by someone for a fake reason.’ But anyway, on Friday night, you and me and Davis and a man-size baby are having a picnic.”

“A picnic?”

“Yeah, it’ll be great.”

“I don’t like eating outside,” I said. “Why can’t we just go to Applebee’s and use two coupons instead of one?”

She stopped and turned to me. We were on the steps outside school, people all around us, and I worried we might get trampled, but Daisy had the ability to part seas. People made room for her. “Let me list my concerns here,” she said. “One: I don’t want to be alone with Mychal on our first and probably only date. Two: I have already told him you have a crush on a guy from Aspen Hall. I can’t unsay that. Three: I have not actually made out with a human being in months. Four: Therefore, I am nervous about the whole thing and want my best friend there. You will note that nowhere in my top four concerns is whether we picnic, so if you want to move this mofo to Applebee’s, that is A-OK by me.”

I thought about it for a second. “I’ll try,” I said. So I texted Davis while waiting for the second bell to ring and commence biology.

Couple friends are getting dinner at Applebee’s at 86th and Ditch on Friday. Are you free?

He wrote back immediately. I am. Pick you up or meet you there?

Meet us there. Does seven work ?

Sure. See you then.

—

After school that day, I had an appointment with Dr. Singh in her windowless office in the immense Indiana University North Hospital up in Carmel. Mom offered to drive me, but I wanted some time alone with Harold.

The whole way up, I thought about what I’d say to Dr. Singh. I can’t properly think and listen to the radio at the same time, so it was quiet in the car, except for the thumping rumble of Harold’s mechanical heart. I wanted to tell her that I was getting better, because that was supposed to be the narrative of illness: It was a hurdle you jumped over, or a battle you won. Illness is a story told in the past tense.

“How are you?” she asked as I sat down. The walls in Dr. Singh’s office were bare except for this one small picture of a fisherman standing on a beach with a net slung over his shoulder. It looked like stock photography, like the picture that came free with the frame. She didn’t even have any diplomas up on the wall.