Around 2:30am McGill’s live-in nanny, Pistol, came home wearing a New York Knicks hat and an orange parka that made him look like an oil refiner, she thought. McGill was half-awake; enough to make observations but not enough to speak her thoughts aloud. Pistol touched McGill’s left hand gently and placed it into his right hand. With his left hand he lifted his Knicks hat by the brim and shook out his hair, making sure it reached it’s full fluff potential. Pistol placed his Knicks hat back onto his head. He tugged McGill by the arm, lifting her up off the futon. She, now standing up quite close to his face, blinked very slowly and smiled lazily, implying sleepiness. Pistol sat down on the floor and opened his laptop, a blue glow pouring onto his unshaven, masculine face. Pistol and McGill lay down side-by-side on their stomaches, naming African countries on Sporcle. “Sporcle is so darling”, McGill said in her slow, sweet, southern drawl.