Kathleen would buy books and leave them sitting in the coffee shop, only quarter-read. She’d tip 100 percent on one bar tab, then nothing on the next. Money meant nothing to her. She’d borrow Cyrus’s jacket, his hoodie, and never return them, not realizing he had no replacements. She knew the name of the guy who flew her father’s helicopter, of her nanny’s kid, which she’d bring up frequently as evidence of her magnanimity. She was Christian but American Christian, the kind that believed Jesus had just needed a bigger gun.
