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Meet Dylan, the day trader

(Washington Post) I first recall seeing Dylan Collins years ago on the basketball court of my son’s junior high school, 6-feet-plus of gangly adolescence with a wild head of hair and an easy, impish grin. Among my son and his friends at the Georgetown Day School, any mention of Dylan invariably brought a knowing smile as they recalled some recent bit of derring-do of which he invariably was the ringleader.

Twelve years later, I am sitting next to Dylan in a nondescript office in one of those new town centers that have sprouted along Florida’s gold coast. Arrayed in two rows, a dozen men, ages 23 to 36, are dressed in dungarees, T-shirts and flip-flops sitting in front of banks of computer terminals, their fingers flying across keyboards, occasionally announcing in a voice just above a whisper the latest news about this company or that sector, or that Rory McIlroy had just walked off the course at the nearby Honda Classic.

A visitor might notice the ubiquitous Tums and Excedrin bottles, or that, at any moment, nearly every member of this crew is jiggling a leg in that way young males do.

Dylan is a day trader and, to the surprise of no one who knows him, he’s turned out to be rather good one.