Tom,” said Douglas, “just promise me one thing, okay?”
“It’s a promise. What?”
“You may be my brother and maybe I hate you sometimes, but stick around, all right?”
“You mean you’ll let me follow you and the older guys when you go on hikes?”
“Well … sure … even that. What I mean is, don’t go away, huh? Don’t let any cars run over you or fall off a cliff.”
“I should say not! Whatta you think I am, anyway?”
“’Cause if worst comes to worst, and both of us are real old—say forty or forty-five some day—we can own a gold mine out West and sit there smoking corn silk and growing beards.”
“Growing beards! Boy!”
“Like I say, you stick around and don’t let nothing happen.”
“You can depend on me,” said Tom.
“It’s not you I worry about,” said Douglas, “It’s the way God runs the world.”
Tom thought about this for a moment.
“He’s all right, Doug,” said Tom. “He tries.”