“What’s up, Danny-boy?” he asks good-naturedly.

I can’t hear the man’s reply, but the two of them chuckle and the friendly-looking man settles onto the stool. The waitress comes out, smiles when she sees him, and pours him a cup of coffee. Everyone suddenly seems more relaxed, and sunshine slants in through the windows and warms me on one side. I feel all of the mortgaged tiredness from the last few days coming due, and I take a deep breath, lean back in the booth, sigh. My knot throbs.

“Know what you want?” the waitress asks, sliding up beside us.

“Pearl, any ideas?” I ask you.

“A grilled cheese, please.”

The waitress grunts quietly.

“What’s good?” I ask.

“What?” She seems taken aback.

“What do you like? Do you have a specialty?”

She glances at her notepad, then back up at me as if I haven’t said anything at all, and sighs impatiently.

“Let’s do the grilled cheese,” I say. “Can you put bacon on that?”

When she writes, it’s like the pen is her weapon, the paper her enemy. I’m surprised she’s not tearing right through it. She grunts again and plunges through the door to the kitchen. The door swings in wide arcs behind her.

“You know what she is?” you say. There’s a mischievous glint in your eye, and I know what’s coming. But I pretend I don’t. I try not to smile.

“No. What?”

“That waitress is the secret witch queen of the island of Nysa.” You’re whispering now, your voice hissing and hesitant.

“Is that so?” I ask.

You nod, your face serious. “This is the entryway to her secret lair. Back in the room where they keep all their ingredients, there’s a secret door behind one of the shelves.”

“Like in Nancy Drew?”

You nod again. “Only better. It only swings opens if you lift up one of the ketchup bottles. There are a thousand steps down into the earth, and at the very bottom is where she keeps her prisoners.”

“Who does she take prisoner?” I ask, feigning seriousness.

“Only people with one name.”

“One name? What name is that?”

“Paul!” You start giggling.

“Paul?” I pretend to be offended, but I’m unable to keep the smile from my face. “Paul?”

“Yeah, Paul!” you say, laughing so hard now you almost can’t speak. “She takes all the Pauls prisoner.” You’re rolling around on the booth, holding your side.

“Why all the Pauls?” I ask, but you can’t answer. You’re laughing too hard. Finally you stop, wiping the tears of laughter from your eyes.

“Oh, Grampy,” you begin, then stop talking.

“You’re a good storyteller,” I say.

You get a strange look on your face, a kind of earnestness that’s akin to pleading. “You know, not all of my stories are made up.”

I reach across the table and place my hand palm up. You put one of your small hands into mine. I stroke the top of your hand with my index finger, and for some reason I’m feeling emotional now, feeling the smoothness of your skin, the tiny bones in your young hand.