"Just a foc'sle tenor," Jason said and explained that he was on his way home from Singapore--a conference on Data Protocols for the 21st Century. "We gave a paper," he said. "My colleague flew back the other way; she has family in Amsterdam." "My, my," Joe said. "I was just an in-the-trenches programmer, designing small systems." Jason nodded sympathetically. Joe was confused. The best banjo player he'd ever heard was returning from an international data conference? In high school, Jason was a football player and a star in the drama club. "I quit programming," Joe said. "It was burning out my brain. I never much liked it anyway." "I know what you mean," Jason said. "How did you get into the info game?" "One thing leads to another," he said. "You pitch in, give a hand, go with the flow." He expanded as he talked. His jaw was set as he carved into his Mauna Kea, half a papaya beneath eruptions of granola, fruit, and yogurt. "Keeps me in toys," he said, relaxing. "Good deal," Joe said. "I wouldn't mind some toys. I'm on the way to becoming a starving artist--writing things." Jason shook his head admiringly. "You get back to Woodstock, much?" Joe asked. "Oh sure, holidays now and then. I got your address from Morgan." "How's he doing? He was out with his lady a while back--Edie. She was nice." "I met her," Jason said. "Good things come in small packages." He frowned. "I saw Daisy in the village. I know you and Daisy were tight." "True," Joe said. "I guess Wes isn't well. Could be bad." "Oh?" "Daisy wasn't optimistic." "Damn," Joe said. "My father just died." "My mom died," Jason said and looked like himself for the first time. "I liked your mom," Joe said. Jason sighed. "Yeah. It's a crap shoot from here on, guy." Joe was sorry to see him leave. Jason had carried his talent for theater into the business world. He had taken on the role of front man and image projector. His job was to walk the walk, talking the talk, while his colleagues fried their brains in the midnight hours. No doubt he'd done it with his usual wholeheartedness; he'd earned his toys. And if the banjo was in the back seat, took second place, what difference did it make so long as he was contributing and doing his best? Too bad about Wes, Joe thought. Daisy was strong. "Hang in there, Babe," he said. He sent them a Christmas card, a beach scene by a local artist. A large Hawaiian woman in a flowered dress lay on her side in four inches of water. Three small children, playing on her, held fast as a tiny wave broke before them. Joe kept to his routine, writing each day. The steel company dropped to .62 on light trading. He thought about buying more, but he held back. For his father's painting, he chose a linen mat and a natural cherry frame. He hung the painting over his table and watched the light moving from outside the frame onto the green leaves and into the woods behind. "Might as well have the best, Batman," he said.