"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."