Nathan is a carpenter, real salt of the earth kinda guy. I met him on the set of Love, Me, for which I was a consultant and executive producer and he was a set construction foreman. We ended up spending a lot of time together during the filming, drinking whiskey in my trailer and talking about our mutual love of old Hollywood westerns. We still talk, every so often, still connect for drinks every few months. He sometimes gets contracted for jobs outside the Atlanta area—he’s been in Glasgow for the past four months, working on a shoot for a miniseries, a WWI piece, I think he said. He must just be getting back into town.

“Doing good, man, glad to be home.”

“You were in, what, Glasgow?”

“Mostly, yeah. It was a challenging set. Complicated and extensive. Looks good on the ol’ resume, though. The director is getting a lot of attention, so having worked on his set will do good things for me.”

“Good to hear it, happy for you.”

“How’s books?”

“How about we meet downtown for drinks and talk, huh? Usual spot?”

“Sounds good. See you in twenty?”

“For sure.” I end the call; get my wallet and keys and head out. I still feel like shit, and drinking is probably not a great idea considering liver failure is what tends to be the real killer behind pancreatic cancer, but fuck it. I’m gonna live while I’m still alive.

Nathan is good people, and I always enjoy getting to talk to him.

We meet up at our favorite bar in downtown Atlanta. He’s big, Nathan is. Six-four, and broad as a damn barn. Heavy shoulders, thick chest, thick arms. His hair is almost as dark as Nadia’s, but he has tinges of gray at the temples. Short but thick beard, also streaked here and there with silver. He’s the same age as me, forty-one. His hands always fascinate me—they’re gargantuan, almost double the size of my hands; when we shake, his grip is loose and easy, but it’s like shaking hands with a cinderblock.

He got here before me and ordered for us—we chose this bar as our haunt because they have a bewildering selection of whiskey and scotch and rye. He’s ordered an obscure scotch, something he discovered in the UK, I figure.

It’s just shooting the shit at first. He talks about the set in Glasgow, lots of building trenches and such, the challenge of making new wood look old and muddy and splintered and blasted, things like that.

Two doubles in, and I sense him going sour. He’s quiet, and I let it be. He does this when he’s a few drinks in—goes from animated and easygoing to slow and dark.

“Thinking deep thoughts over there, Nate,” I say.

He shrugs. “Nothing worth sharing.”