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massive pack. Impressive. The inflatable chair has a built-in air pump, and in about three seconds he’s seated comfortably. I try to pick up one of the dilapidated chairs for Lisa, but the whole thing falls apart as soon as I touch it.
    “Nice one, Shakespeare,” says Nate. “That was probably an antique.”
    “As if you would know.”
    “I’m perfectly comfortable on the floor,” says Lisa, sitting down and arranging her legs cross-legged. I join her, but there’s hardly anything perfect or comfortable about it. My ass is instantly chilled.
    Nate leans back. The chair squishes. “Dad said if nothing happens to just make some shit up.”
    “Oh, that’s just great,” I mutter. “He could have told me that to start, and we could have saved ourselves the trip.”
    “Are you kidding?” says Nate, pulling out a bag of chips from his bag. Of course he also has a cold six-pack in there. “This is going to be a blast. I could stay here all night.”
    Even Lisa’s casting a few envious looks at the inflatable chair.
    “You want to switch?” he asks her.
    “I’m fine,” she says firmly, but we all know she doesn’t mean it.
    “Suit yourself,” says Nate. “Chip?”
    If Lisa goes for the chip, then the beer isn’t far behind. Next thing you know, they’ll be cuddled up on the inflatable chair, feeding each other Lay’s from the bag, talking about bars where the cool people go.
    “You want some coffee?” I ask.
    Lisa shakes her head. “I wish, but I can’t take the caffeine. It’ll keep me up for days.”
    “It’s decaf.” Now I’ll go to hell for sure. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
    “All right, Shakespeare , just a little,” says Lisa wryly. “Maybe it’ll warm me up.”
    Nate glares at me. Two points for Dimitri.
    I pour a steaming cup of my extra-caffeinated coffee into the thermos top and hand it to her, hoping she doesn’t suffer from a heart murmur and that she has excellent health benefits. She takes a sip.
    “This doesn’t taste like decaf,” she says, peering suspiciously into the thermos top. “Tastes Colombian. Like premium dark roast.”
    I give my most innocent shrug. “Maybe because it’s organic.” But I can see Nate suspects something’s up.
    “So, Lisa,” he says. “You must be the friend that works with the elderly.” Is this the same guy who said, “Who gives a shit? They’re just dead old people”?
    “Yeah,” replies Lisa cautiously. “I’ve been working at Crosslands for a few years now.”
    Where’s he going with this?
    “I really admire that,” says Nate. “You know, my grandmother was there before she passed away last year.” He seems to choke up on this last bit.
    “Really. What was your grandmother’s name?”
    “Beatrice, Beatrice Cheney,” says Nate. “It was cancer. Cancer left a hole in the heart of our family.” He presses a meaty paw across his eyes, as if there might be tears.
    Lisa’s brows furrow. With concern? Is she actually falling for this crap?
    “Beatrice? I don’t remember a Beatrice—”
    “Probably before you started there.”
    “I thought your grandmother lived in Florida,” I say pointedly, twisting the cap back on my thermos. “Near Orlando.”
    “She did… before… she died.”
    Such an evil, unfair play—now I must look like an insensitive jerk. I’m in a bad, bad mental place until Lisa catches my eye and gives me a questioning eyebrow.
    Hallelujah. There is a God.
    Nate sniffs. “Do you have a tissue?”
    “Right, tissue,” says Lisa dryly. “You have an arsenal in your backpack but not a single paper product.”
    “I just didn’t think I’d get so emotional. But this place reminds me of her. It’s so old-timey.” He sighs heavily and snuffles.
    “ Okay ,” says Lisa, getting to her feet and brushing the residual dust off her jeans. “I wanted to stretch my legs anyways. I can look around, see if anyone’s left some TP or something.” She grabs her bag and gracefully