Free Devil's Plaything by Matt Richtel Page A

on computers.
    I am trying to maintain a civil, even playful, tone with the Yokels. If they sense alarm from me, it’ll shoot through the gossipy group like sugar through a nine-year-old. But it’s an understatement to say I’m anxiously seeking Grandma.
    The center has a small dance floor, easels, a piano, bongo drums, and bingo sets, and a dozen computer stations that have become the center of the home’s recent influx of capital to fund the Human Memory Crusade.
    Today, the stations are filled with residents. Some talk into microphones. Others play games. I see one woman with bright orange hair navigating the mouse with great alacrity as she plays what looks to be a fast-paced version of the word game hangman.
    Grandma sits in a cubicle at the end. As I get near, I peer over her shoulder. On the monitor is a question: “Why did your brother decide to leave home?” In front of Grandma is a microphone, but she is not speaking.
    Next to Grandma sits Harry, the quietest Yokel. As I approach the pair, he turns to me. His hair is cropped tightly like the day sixty-five years ago when the war ended and the Navy let him go. His shoulders remain broad but the chest and arms that must have once been imposing, even in an era before weight lifting and protein shakes, have shrunken. Grandma turns to me too, tracking Harry’s movements.
    She wears a mellow smile.
    â€œHello, old friend,” she says.
    I kneel so that my face is the same level as hers. She’s got sleep crystals in the inside corner of her right eye, but she’s made an effort to put herself together this morning. Her lips glisten with light pink lipstick, a smudge of which trails off the corner of her mouth.
    â€œHello, favorite grandmother.”
    â€œI’m using the computer,” she says.
    â€œShe’s tired today,” Harry says. “Maybe not the best day for a visit.”
    I feel a jolt of anger that catches me off guard.
    â€œWhat’s not good about it, Harry?”
    He clears his throat, and lowers his head.
    â€œI don’t think she slept that well.”
    â€œSorry, Harry. I didn’t either. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
    â€œYour clothes need washing,” Grandma says to me.
    She’s stares at my blue T-shirt, which has dirt on its sleeve. It must have smudged when G.I. Chuck tackled me. Speaking of which, I haven’t heard from the excitable venture capitalist. The car chase must have ended unsuccessfully and, I hope, he’s overcome his macho instincts and sought medical care. Grandma picks up that I’ve left the moment.
    â€œNathaniel?”
    â€œGrandma, can we go to your room and have a little chat?”
    She looks at Harry, as if for his permission. Maybe she’s just lost in her own world.
    â€œI’d like that, grandson.”
    From my backpack, I pull an oatmeal energy bar, unwrap it and hand half to Grandma. I feel oddly like I’m rewarding her, as if she were a child, or simply sustaining her with every possible measure. She takes the snack with a smile, which is sufficient payoff to turn down the volume on my over-analysis.
    En route to Grandma’s room, I feel buzzing from my pocket. It’s coming from the phone Chuck gave me.
    â€œChuck’s phone,” I answer.
    â€œI lost him,” says Chuck. “Or, rather, I never found him in the first place.”
    â€œWhere are you calling from?”
    â€œPay phone.”
    â€œDid you call the police?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œDespite your warnings that I not contact them?”
    â€œI left them an anonymous tip about a drive-by shooting at your address—and the make and year of the vehicle,” he says. “Did you find shell casings?”
    I tell him that I did. I ask what he suggests I do with them.
    â€œPut them somewhere safe until we get together. I’ve got meetings on the Peninsula and I want to do some more digging. I’ll be in touch to