She raised her eyebrows at him.

“I’m looking at ‘Ghanaian coffins, but they’re not really coffins. I mean, they don’t look like coffins.’”

She laughed and then covered her mouth.

“Useless, really. My overly male brain systemizing everyday interactions. I suppose some neurologists would say I received too much prenatal testosterone.”

“Or too much adult testosterone,” she mumbled.

“Hmm?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, and turned slightly away.

“Oh, don’t be cruel,” he said. “I’m just a bungling surgeon. Take pity. How about we start again. I’m Devesh, and you are?”

She turned to look at him, and he extended his hand. He looked earnest. If Mary had her way, Devesh would be spending a lot of time with them. She supposed she should try and be nice. “You have my book,” she said.

“Ah, Josie. A pleasure to meet you.”

She folded her arms and set her chin.

“Josie who studies Africa,” he continued.

“Ghanaian burial rituals, but Tyler doesn’t know about the burial part.”

“Six-year-olds and death, not a good combination, I suppose. Although my grandfather died when I was six and the thought of him coming back as a superhero was quite pleasing.”

She smiled despite herself. She rubbed her ankle with the sole of her foot and looked at him. Maybe not smug, but something. Something that tickled at the base of her spine, part painful, part pleasurable.

“And you’re a surgeon,” she said.

“Yes; I try and keep the bodies alive, or at least teach medical students how to do that. But as of the summer, I’m just in the lab doing very boring research on wound repair.”

“And you’re from India.”

“And I’m from India. And you’re from?”

“California.”

“Ahh … California. I can see that.”

Normally, she felt comfortable around men. She would tilt her head, turn one corner of her mouth into a smile, and feel confident that she could at least charm the last bagel or only newspaper out of a man, but now she felt hyper-aware of her bare knees and sunburnt shoulders. She took a deep breath and determined to settle herself. “Santa Barbara, actually,” she said.

They talked about Santa Barbara—he had been there once for a conference—and he asked her questions—about burial rituals and Ghanaian politics; about her favorite books and movies; about her family and friends; and her thoughts on talk shows, and fashion, and ice creams, and toenail polish. He listened intently and smiled at her shyness, and pulled Tic Tacs from his pocket when she ran out of answers.

“We should go inside,” she said.

“Running off again.” He sighed.

“No … I just thought …” She was afraid Mary would find them here, alone.

“Don’t worry. She told me to find you.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“So you could introduce me to the people I don’t know.” He smiled. “But this is much more pleasant.”