Brett goes into the kitchen and reemerges with a six-pack. “It’s craft,” he says, pointing to the logo on the box. “It’s made just a few miles from here.” He hands me a bottle, which has an illustration of a tree on it. I reach for the bottle opener on the table and pop the top while he continues to pitch it. I’m sure it’s fine. “I just really like to know where my stuff is from, you know? With big companies, it’s like you don’t even know what kind of crap you’re putting into your body.”

I resist the urge to laugh at the irony as he finishes his statement and reaches for the bong, expertly balancing it in one hand while lighting it with the other; he manages to pull the pin with the same hand that holds the lighter and take a long rip, all while standing up. I get the impression this might be how he spends every evening.

He leans back and blows a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Okay, so like I was saying, ideation.” He hands the bong to Sara again. Braden moves toward her to help.

I set down my beer and reach for my notebook.

“What you really need to do is approach the creative process in a need-based way. You find a gap in the market that needs filling and bingo.”

“So how did you get from that to...your idea?” I ask. With his need-based approach, I picture some sort of medical equipment or a system that helps track the shipment of food so it doesn’t spoil, not a chat room for preteens.

“Well, a lot of middle schoolers these days are prevented from accessing the traditional social media sites by their parents, so we thought if we developed a new one that no parent had heard of and made the app appear like a game on their phones, we could fill that market.”

“Are you worried though?” I ask. “About bullying and predators and all the reasons middle school parents tried to get their kids off social media in the first place?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “We’ve got a lawyer on retainer. He says we shouldn’t be liable for any of that.”

Yeah, but even if they can’t sue you, doesn’t it bother you that people use what you made for terrible things?

Brett reaches for the bong; he doesn’t seem preoccupied with this.

He smiles. “It’s honestly ridiculous—” He looks around himself. “Has anyone seen the lighter?”

Sara shakes her head no and then looks down at her lap, where the yellow Zippo is resting. “Oh!” Her head shoots up. “Yeah.” She laughs and hands it to him.

“What was I saying?” Brett says.

“It’s ridiculous...” I answer.