“I don’t know. I asked my dad’s assistant to look it up, but she couldn’t find any numbers.” The car turns off campus, heading through the overpriced shops of downtown Palo Alto and toward the residential neighborhood beyond. “The house we’re about to visit has got to be worth a few million though, if that tells you anything.”

I raise my eyebrows and nod, then settle back in my seat and look out my own window as we zoom past homes with sunny gardens and Teslas parked out front.

I try to wrap my mind around the idea of a kid just a few years older than me with millions. I mean, I’ve just begun to get used to the ridiculousness that is Braden, a teen who has access to and will one day inherit a butt-load of money.

But someone who has earned it himself? Someone who is done worrying about homework and is instead worried about his company’s quarterly report? Someone at an age where a job should mean camp counselor or grocery bagger, who is instead probably running around in thousand-dollar suits as he heads to board meetings? I can’t even picture that.

A few minutes later, the car comes to a stop in front of a modest-looking ranch house.

The driver slides a finger across his screen to end the ride and offers us bottled water or mints as we get out. A little bit different than taking the bus or train.

Can I offer you someone’s old gum that’s been stuck under the seat? might be the BART equivalent.

I close the door behind me and step around the car to take in the house. It’s not what I thought a multimillion-dollar house would look like. I always envisioned more Scrooge McDuck levels of elegance. Maybe some big white columns framing a grand entrance. Perhaps someone in uniform who runs to open your door for you and take your coat, before beginning a rendition of “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here” from Annie, complete with a dance break performed by housekeepers in black-and-white uniforms. I was thinking it’d be a house so big there were rooms with no purpose, or maybe one just meant for swimming in money. Okay, maybe that’s more what I thought when I was a little kid. But still, the place looks kind of normal. I can’t believe they paid so much for it.

Braden punches the doorbell and I can hear it ringing inside, through a window a few feet from the door, although a curtain masks my view. A few weeds poke out from the cobblestones that make up the front steps, and junk mail and a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue poke out from a mailbox with a blue bird painted on it.