On Division Street, I'm running, Scout is biking. She initiates a huffing conversation by asking why a certain third-grade contemporary doesn't like her.
Resisting the temptation to quote her late grandmother to the effect of, "Fuck her if she can't take a joke," I remind her that 99 people out of a hundred like her.
Why do people like her, she wants to know.
"I can think of a hundred reasons," I say.
"You're warm, you're smart, you're polite, you're loving, you care about other people's feelings and you're funny."
"That's not a hundred."
"No, but I could come up with a hundred, easy."
"How about 30?"
"Okay, 30. But not while I'm trying to run, okay?"
"And as for Olivia [not her real name]? Fuck her if she can't take a joke."
I already long for a simpler time ….