I WAS AWAKENED by a knock on the door. It was the fourth night of the shivah, almost midnight. Another knock. I got up and went to open the door. Shapiro was standing there in his crumpled service dress and a brown beret on his head. He saluted with his left hand and apologized for not coming earlier, said it was all because of that schmuck Waxman, who had taken away his Shabbat leave. He walked into the apartment, leaning on his cane, dragging his army boots across the floor. Avigail was standing behind him. Shapiro dropped his bag at the entrance to the living room and plopped himself onto the worn leather couch. “Oy gevalt,” he sighed and took a deep breath. “Listen to me, don’t ever get hip replacement surgery.”

I made them coffee and the three of us sat down in the living room.

“How are you?” Avigail asked me, placing her hand on top of mine. I imparted a few clichés, about how hard it was and how we were trying to pull through, and withdrew my hand.

“You don’t have to say all that tired bullshit,” she said. “It’s okay if you’re not up to talking about it.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

Shapiro took a sip of his coffee.

“This doesn’t have any sugar!” he croaked.

“You’re not allowed any,” Avigail replied peacefully. “Say, did you even take your pills?”

Shapiro didn’t answer.

“Grandpa!” She said he was behaving like a child, then got up and went over to his duffel bag, took out a pillbox and a big plastic baggie. She handed him a few pills and a glass of water, took out rolling paper from her pocket, opened the baggie, and started rolling a joint.

“What gives?” I asked in a huff. “This is totally inappropriate.”

“It’s for me,” Shapiro said. “Medicinal. Top-notch stuff,” he announced proudly. “Honey, would you be so kind as to roll one for Yuli as well? He’s had a tough week.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, waving my hands in anger to make it clear there was no way they were going to smoke pot in Grandpa’s house.

“Come on, what do you care?” she said. “You’ve got every excuse.”

“How are you even allowed to smoke pot?” I asked Shapiro. “You’re a soldier. In the army.”

“Right,” he replied. “The first IDF soldier with a permit for medicinal weed!”

“The family is awfully proud,” Avigail added with a smile.

“Listen, this is not cool,” I said. “If Grandpa finds out you smoked in his house …”

Avigail stopped rolling and looked somewhere past my shoulder. Shapiro turned his gaze to the same spot, his smile turning hesitant. For a moment, it seemed as if he was struggling to recognize the man in front of him. Grandpa was standing there in a white undershirt, long black pants and slippers, looking at us with a tired gaze.