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"Do you want to go to baseball camp?" Alan asked.
"Yeah," 14-year-old Don grumbled.
"Charlie is graciously offered to do your paper route, so you need to show him."
"I know," Don snapped. "He's just so … know-it-all."
Don shoved the last of his rolled-up newspapers into the bag and carried it outside. Charlie was already in the station wagon, a map spread out on his lap with Don's customers marked with red dots. Charlie was muttering math gibberish.
Don snorted in disgust and climbed in.
After their father dropped them off, Don hitched the heavy newspaper bag over his shoulders and trudged off. He could do this route in his sleep, and had done, many times.
Charlie trailed after him, chattering, breaking into the early morning daze that Don liked to slip into. "But you should really go up Stanford Street first, then take—"
"I like my way fine."
"But, it's sub-optimal!"
"You don't know anything, dweeb," Don snapped.
"I've calculated vectors, foot paths, inclines, ideal delivery angles and trajectories. You could shave ten minutes off your time!"
"You don't have all the data," Don smirked.
"What?" Charlie demanded. "What am I missing?"
Don eyed him. "If I tell you, will you shut up?"
Charlie nodded.
"You can't tell Dad. Or anybody, ok?"
Charlie quickly nodded again.
"Becky Halasamani."
"Huh?"
"Her house is the last one on Browning. If I come from the right direction and the right time, sometimes … she leaves her curtains open and I see her in her nightgown."
Charlie stared. "That's peeping!"
Grimacing, Don said, "Shoulda known you wouldn't get it."
"Um," Charlie recovered. "I can factor that in and still shave five minutes off your time."
Don perked up. "I knew there was a reason I let you take my paper route."