“My brother Tunafish wrote them,” she says. “Most of them back in the 1980s and a few more last year.” “Really,” I say. “Where is your brother Tunafish now? Love to meet him.” “He’s back home,” she says, “In North Carolina. In the ground.” She falls silent. It takes me a moment to understand, then I get it. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “By the way, my name is Stu. Stu Jenks.” I extend my hand and we shake across the knick-knack table. “Elizabeth Smith,” she says. “Pleasure to meet you.”