Ben had expected that. Partly it was because he knew Art, and he had watched (albeit from some distance, in his grand fuck-around-Europe-wasting-Aldous'-money tour) as Art had done this before, and he knew what it looked like even if he hadn't wanted to recognize it. Partly it was because Ben knew Meredith Watchword. She'd written about him less than a month ago, and Ben knew she didn't make shit up. She was so spot on with the facts that by the time he'd read the article he'd almost been wondering if maybe her vague suggestions about what he was hoping for were right, too, and he just hadn't realized it yet.

"How much money is it?" he asked, glancing back up at Art. Ben didn't have a lot of money, but he had some, and he would have handed it over in a heartbeat if he thought it was what Art needed to pull through this.