How to correct inflation. In the dark and rain.

...first you would gather all the dollar bills you could...says Gabe on our 3 mile trek to his carpool drop-off point.

It’s 7:05 a.m., and the short winter daylight has not yet arrived. A curving line of cars is waiting to turn left into the high school parking lot, blinkers and headlights sparkling through the persistent drizzle.

...then, you would make it so dollars were like yen...

You mean, I cut in, you need about a thousand to buy a pencil? But I cannot think about this too hard as I have reached the moment where I must watch for the “shadow children.” High schoolers crossing the road to school by jaywalking between the dark cars stretched out in line for the traffic light to change. Their silhouettes appear suddenly from behind a car, stepping in front of me with the conviction that I will spot their denim and black jackets, and have the reflexes and traction required not to smear them into the damp road. I go slowly.

...and then you set it up so all the places in the world where they store money would have fiery explosions...

We’ve safely avoided shadow children. Now it’s commuters pulling into the center turn lane, hoping to join our prevailing direction. But it’s disconcerting in the dark and rain. Headlights looming on my flank in my peripheral vision.

...so, says Gabe, you’ve stashed a couple million hundred-dollar bills...

Two-million dollars isn’t that much for an evil scheme, I say. (I am distracted, you see. Someone has to drive.)

No. hundred-dollar bills, Gabe clarifies.

We arrive. I told you we wouldn’t be late, says Gabe. You should have more faith in my sense of lateness.

I point out that Mrs. Child’s car is running and she’s already popped her trunk. He is unimpressed.