For the first time, he didn't flinch. He held the remote like a tiny magic wand. He clicked the little TV icon. He scrolled. He found an old black-and-white Marx Brothers movie.

"Your grandmother," he said softly, "was the funniest person I ever knew. She didn't need Netflix. She'd just… perform."

Maya finally looked up, a smirk playing on her lips. "Okay, Grandpa. Let's make a deal. You figure out the smart TV, and I'll figure out… your day. One hour. No phones. Your rules."

"Now this ," he said, "is comedy."

And last week, when the TV froze on a spinning wheel of doom, Maya threw her hands up. "It's broken!"

Maya, in her designer leggings and tank top, looked profoundly out of place. But she swung a leg over the Raleigh. "Fine. But if I die of tetanus, you're explaining it to Mom."