Page 38 of Wayfarers

“Me too. I’m just saying.”

“I don’t even understand incurious people. Like, you have this one life, and you don’t want to explore and discover?”

“I’m with you. I just don’t think I’m that interesting.”

“Let me be the judge.”

I sigh and smile. “Then . . . we moved around a lot. Didn’t stay in one place for very long. See? Boring.”

“Like an army brat sort of deal?”

“Kinda.” Please be satisfied with that. “How about you?”

“Springfield, Illinois.”

“Been there.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, just passing through.”

“How did you survive the excitement?”

“Seemed pleasant enough. Wouldn’t have minded staying a little longer,” I say honestly. I decide I’m going to start telling her as much truth as I possibly can. It makes me feel bad to lie to her.

“What were you doing there?”

“How’d I know that would be your next question, Curious Georgina? Goat farm.”

“Visiting?”

“Working.”

Sylvie gasps and pushes me. “STOP.”

“Okay, don’t break my good arm.”

“Oh! Right! Sorry. But still—SHUT UP. Did you see baby goats?”

“Saw baby goats. Held baby goats. Fed baby goats milk from a bottle while cradling baby goats. And . . . you may wanna sit down: rocked baby goats to sleep in my arms.”

Sylvie covers her mouth with her hands and squeals in the back of her throat. “Have you seen that video of the baby goats with the zoomies after a bath?”

“No.”

“Okay, get out your phone—”

“No phone.”

“As in ‘I lost my phone’?”

“As in ‘never owned one.’”

Sylvie stares like I just told her that holding in a fart causes liver damage.

“Yeah, just not a big phone family,” I say, striving for a nonchalance that would curtail further questioning.

“You must be, like, the world’s purest human—holding and feeding baby goats instead of endless hours on TikTok.”