Walt and Rock rode in a helicopter as it flew at dusk over a vast plot of pricey houses. They were oddly exotic, perhaps to the point of weirdness, Rock thought. They were all one story, trimmed in stainless steel and glass, each with glass ceilings that exposed gatherings of young adults dressed in casual evening wear.
"What do those houses go for?" Rock said.
Walt had arranged the flyover. He apparently was in search for a new place to live.
"They're asking for about two-fifty a year," Walt said.
"Two-hundred fifty thousand a year?" Rock was incredulous. "Fuck, man, how much are you going to make as a truck driver?"
Walt explained earlier that he had recently begun to consider a career change.
"Most drivers make at least eighty thousand a year," he said, as if that were plenty adequate to cover expenses in the neighborhoods below. "Rock, you're too satisfied. You're like a lot of people I know, just perfectly content with your boring life."
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