Reid shakes his head. “No, he’s a professor.” He pushes his hummus-tomato-cucumber mixture around—I don’t think that was a successful endeavor for him—looking wistful for a second. But then he speaks again. “He’s brilliant. He can do the kind of math that seems unbelievable.”

“Huh,” I say, not acknowledging that I’m pretty unsure about what qualifies as “unbelievable” math. Long division, probably.

“He also plays a lot of games. They say he’s always got dice, or a Slinky, or playing cards. For years, when he was first starting out, it’s how he would spend all his time. Backgammon. Chess. New games he’d make up.”

“He sounds fun.” I pause for a half second before I add something, a tentative effort. This meet-up, this meal—it’s a game all its own, the one with the long, rectangular blocks you pull from the bottom and stack on top, making a taller and taller tower. Taking a risk, watching to see if it’ll topple. “Probably has a great sense of humor.”

Reid looks over at me, gives me that crooked almost smile. The tower holds, and I could clap for myself.

“People used to think—even he used to think—he was wasting time, playing games. But he was really . . . he was working out math all along. Loosening up his mind for ideas that were on their way.”

“Do you do that?”

“No, not lately. But I was thinking about your . . .” He trails off.

I can almost see it, him pulling his own block from the bottom. “Reid. Are you about to give me a business idea?”

He shifts on his stool. “No.”

I wait. He was absolutely about to give me a business idea.

“It’s more of an . . . ideas idea.” He’s got that block hovering right at the top of the tower.

I give a dramatic sigh, but on the inside, I’m smiling. I want the ideas idea the same way I wanted to see his handwriting. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

He picks up his napkin—which he’d actually draped over one of his thighs, as if we’re somewhere fancy—and swipes it across his mouth before setting it neatly beside his cardboard plate. “I was thinking about your list.”

I must get a look on my face.

“Which is a great list,” he adds, hastily. “Very efficient.”

“Bu-ut,” I say, prompting him before I take my last bite of food.

“It seemed stressful. Following the list and looking for . . . expected things.” He clears his throat again. “It struck me that—it could be useful to remember that signs are, ah.” He pauses, looks across the street again. “Often unexpected.”

Like you, I want to say again.

“I know you have a goal, to get your inspiration. But what if you . . . made it more fun? Like a game.”