“Kid, how good are you really? Are you really as good as they say?” I was pretending that a tween hadn’t just almost given me a heart attack. I’d completely forgotten about her presence.
“Good as who says at what?” That was some kind of tongue twister, and why the hell did she sound like somebody’s CEO? I guess I took too long to answer because her voice came through the computer again before I could formulate a response.
“Your question is too nonspecific, Uncle Gabe.”
Uncle? Come to think of it, she calls all the men here uncle now that I recall, but we’ve never even met. Later for that, maybe she’s as batty as her dad; I’m more interested in her word choice.
“You’re ten, right.”
“I am.” No ten-year-old uses the word nonspecific. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had my doubts about whether or not Lyon and the others have been pulling my leg when it came to this kid’s antics, but she was making me nervous as hell.
“By the way, Uncle Gabriel, can you get me some piperidine?”