As grandfathers go, I am of the lazy kind. Tasked with looking after Charlie one morning, I found pleasure enough in helping him draw pictures for an hour or so, but was undismayed when he said he wanted to watch a movie. I could get back to my computer. I set up Netflix for him in our bedroom. “Tinkerbell?” I asked, knowing it was a favorite. He shook his head. “Scoobiedoo,” he said. The Netflix computer, trained by Charlie’s visits to our home over many months, promptly displayed the program as one of Richard’s favorites. “I think you’ve seen it,” I said. “How about . . .?” “Scoobiedoo,” Charlie said, very firmly. He began to laugh as soon as the movie began. I slid off the bed, ready to get back to work. Charlie grabbed my shirt and pulled me back, without taking his eyes off the screen. I stretched an arm across to the bedside table and picked up a book. I felt an elbow in my ribs and put the book down. I lay back and relaxed. I laughed with Charlie at the next scene. He scrunched up closer and, resting his head on my chest, smiled contentedly. Charlie had discovered a truth of which I had been only partly aware. Pleasure shared is double pleasure.