There’s this game Charlie likes to play. I blame the streak of melodramatic French in him — he can’t help speculating about everyone. We ducked into a bright little coffee shop to escape the damp, heavy air outside. Amid the hiss of the coffee machine, steamy windows, damp clothes and the sweet smell of pastries, Charlie zeroed in on a guy sitting alone, scrolling on his phone, blissfully unaware he’d become the latest target of Charlie’s imagination.

“What is he looking at? Who is he messaging?” Charlie whispered while we waited for our takeaway. I’d heard these questions a hundred times, and I hardly had the energy to answer anymore. His curiosity could tip into something nosy, even a bit rude, and I’d told him more than once that it bordered on prying. Still… I had to admit, despite my protests, it was often weirdly entertaining.

And he was already off. “It’s all very mysterious, but I’ve got a theory,” he said, eyes locked on the boy with the coffee. “He is telling someone he woke up without a care in the world… until a man in the street annoyed him. So he punched him — once — and killed him. And now that boy over there is a murderer.”

Sometimes I wondered whether he was just trying to make me laugh, or if there was something darker in the way he saw people. I glanced at the poor guy and found myself, just for a moment, considering whether Charlie’s wild theory wasn’t entirely impossible.