Given the last few years of my life, any sort of silence while in the presence of a woman was uncommon. I had almost forgotten what it was like. I was able to endure it for a grand total of two minutes before I had to get up. I had to do something. That’s when I remembered the brief shopping excursion I had taken that morning. I’d had no idea that Mac’s grandfather would set us up with lunch, so I had taken the necessary precautions. I went into the plane and removed the small brown paper bag that I had tucked away beneath the seat. When I got back to the campfire, I opened the bag and—not so proudly—showed Mac my offerings. “Oh,” she said, suppressing a laugh. “You shouldn’t have.” I set the contents of the bag on the sand around the fire: a can of pork and beans and two packs of Saltine crackers. “I didn’t think to bring any wine,”
