Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

said, “Because unfortunately I only have seven dollars and sixty-eight cents.” “Seven dollars?” “And sixty-eight cents.” “This is not happening.” “Unfortunately, it is. But if you give me your address, I promise I'll send you the rest.” He put his head down on the steering wheel. I asked if he was OK. He said, “Keep your seven dollars and sixty-eight cents.” I said, “I promise I'll send you the money. I promise.” He handed me his card, which was actually the card of a dentist, but he had written his address on the other side. Then he said something in some other language that wasn't French. “Are you mad at me?”
    Obviously I'm incredibly panicky about roller coasters, but Abe convinced me to ride one with him. “It would be a shame to die without riding the Cyclone,” he told me. “It would be a shame to die,” I told him. “Yeah,” he said, “but with the Cyclone you can choose.” We sat in the front car, and Abe lifted his hands in the air on the downhill parts. I kept wondering if what I was feeling was at all like falling.
    In my head, I tried to calculate all of the forces that kept the car on the tracks and me in the car. There was gravity, obviously. And centrifugal force. And momentum. And the friction between the wheels and the tracks. And wind resistance, I think, or something. Dad used to teach me physics with crayons on paper tablecloths while we waited for our pancakes. He would have been able to explain everything.
    The ocean smelled weird, and so did the food they were selling on
    the boardwalk, like funnel cakes and cotton candy and hot dogs. It was an almost perfect day, except that Abe didn't know anything about the key or about Dad. He said he was driving into Manhattan and could give me a ride if I wanted one. I told him, “I don't get in cars with strangers, and how did you know I was going to Manhattan?” He said, “We're not strangers, and I don't know how I knew.” “Do you have an SUV?” “No.” “Good. Do you have a gas-electric hybrid car?” “No.” “Bad.”
    While we were in the car I told him all about how I was going to meet everyone in New York with the last name Black. He said, “I can relate, in my own way, because I had a dog run away once. She was the best dog in the world. I couldn't have loved her more or treated her better. She didn't want to run away. She just got confused, and followed one thing and then another.” “But my dad didn't run away,” I said. “He was killed in a terrorist attack.” Abe said, “I was thinking of you.” He went up with me to the door of Ada Black's apartment, even though I told him I could do it myself. “I'll feel better knowing you made it here safely,” he said, which sounded like Mom.
    Ada Black owned two Picasso paintings. She didn't know anything about the key, so the paintings meant nothing to me, even if I knew they were famous. She said I could have a seat on the couch if I wanted to, but I told her I didn't believe in leather, so I stood. Her apartment was the most amazing apartment I'd ever been in. The floors were like marble chessboards, and the ceilings were like cakes. Everything seemed like it belonged in a museum, so I took some pictures with Grandpa's camera. “This might be a rude question, but are you the richest person in the world?” She touched a lampshade and said, “I'm the 467th-rich-est person in the world.”
    I asked her how it made her feel to know that there were homeless people and millionaires living in the same city. She said, “I give a lot to charity, if that's what you're getting at.” I told her that I wasn't getting at anything, and that I just wanted to know how she felt. “I feel fine,” she said, and she asked me if I wanted something to drink. I asked her for a coffee, and she asked someone in another room for a coffee, and then I asked her if she thought that maybe no one should have more than a certain amount of money until everyone had that amount of money. That was an idea Dad had once suggested to me. She said, “The Upper West Side isn't free, you know.” I asked her how she knew that I lived on the Upper West Side. “Do you have things that you don't need?” “Not really.” “You collect coins?” “How did you know I collect coins?” “Lots of young people collect coins.” I told her, “I need them.” “Do you need them as much as a homeless person needs food?” The conversation was beginning to make me feel