“You’re up?”

He nodded, rooted to his spot. There were a few moments of silence.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“We came to visit your grandson,” Avigail replied. Shapiro kept studying Grandpa with a worried look.

“I mean, what are you doing with that?” he said, pointing at the baggie.

“Oh, that’s for my back pain,” Shapiro mumbled. “Can’t fall asleep without it. Want some?”

“No,” he said. “And don’t smoke in here.”

“Sorry,” Avigail said and quickly shoved it all back into her bag. Grandpa considered me for a moment, then looked at Shapiro. “You can do it upstairs,” he announced. “Where it won’t stink up the house.”

Grandpa shuffled back to his room, and two minutes later reappeared with a plaid jacket. Without saying a word, he started up the stairs to the roof, the three of us promptly following him.

We sat there in oppressive silence. Shapiro and Grandpa no longer looked like close friends, more like a couple of old fogies who happened to bump into each other in line at the Social Security office.

“Got a light?” Shapiro asked. Avigail handed him a lighter and he lit the joint and took a deep drag. “Oy,” he said. “Oy, this is good.”

“Give me the light,” Grandpa said and took a cigar out of his jacket pocket. He stared at it for a few moments, drew it to his nose and sniffed. Finally, he lit it, took a few deep drags, and surprisingly, didn’t cough even once.

“What’s this about, Neuerman? A few days into civilian life and you’re already a hedonist? The politicians would be proud of you,” Shapiro said quietly, still unsure whether he was allowed to joke.

“I was a hedonist in the army too,” Grandpa said. He told us that the day he had escaped from the base he not only stole the unit vehicle but also the cigars, the ones Waxman had bought in Cuba and wouldn’t stop bragging about.

“I wanted something to remind me of the little shit,” he said.

While Shapiro kept a straight face, Avigail couldn’t keep herself from laughing. Eventually Grandpa let out a smile too.

“Neuerman, what do you say, don’t you think your grandson should try a little puff?”

“He’s a big boy, he can do whatever he wants.”

“I’ve never smoked anything in my life, and I’m not about to start now. You’re welcome to offer to your granddaughter instead.”

“I don’t smoke either,” she said. “But it’s a shame you won’t give it a try. You should know it really helps people with post-trauma.”

“And what does that have anything to do with me?” I asked, tensing.

“Oh please, stop kidding yourself. You’re fucked up, Yuli. You know that perfectly well. Even now, it’s like you’re sitting here at someone else’s shivah.”