I saw a chair on a playground and it made me think of writing.

Not about the chair itself – this isn’t Ode to a Playground Chair – but about the circumstances that once surrounded it. My wife and I came upon it in a Tennessee December, and we could only guess at how long it had been there. It somehow managed to appear beaten up – its leather torn, its arms missing, its legs tilted unsteadily in the grass – while also seeming fresh, as though someone had left it there just hours before we found it.

One of the benefits of writing fiction over nonfiction is that, while I can approach a question with a journalist’s curiosity, I have no obligation to stick to the facts. The fun of the job is spinning my speculations out until they have made their own identity. The inciting image – the chair – becomes a distant ancestor, the primordial ooze from which the rest of the story evolves.

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There’s a grandfather whose family has come home to Nashville for the holidays. He hasn’t seen his grandchildren, twin boys, since they were infants, and at that time he had his mind focused on the digital slot machines on his computer at home. He had been on a tear, small jackpots really adding up, when he got the call from his son about the early labor. On the whole plane ride to Boston his thumb twitched against the tray table, just one more spin, one more spin.

One of the twins was named Jack, and the grandfather referred to the other, secretly, as Pot. All these years later, he still forgets the other one’s name. Doesn’t help that they’re identical. Or maybe it does – he just always calls the one in front of him Jack, and, as frustrating as it may be, they’ll understand the mix up.

The kids are five now and the digital slots have migrated to a tablet that the grandfather can take in the car or the shitter and play them by actually moving his finger, pulling the bright yellow lever down the screen. If you aren’t near a wireless internet, the tablet connects to the satellites and gets online that way. The grandfather has questions about how it works, but the important thing is that it does. The slots make the perfect clicking sound as they scroll, and the clanging bell when it pays out gets the goosebumps sprouting every time. The program stores your credit card information so it takes no effort to re-up for more coins.

Now after dinner the kids fight over their parents’ cell phones, which have colorful games of their own. In his arm chair in the living room, sitting with the family, the grandfather fits right in, swiping at his own personal screen. But when his son catches a glimpse of the grandfather’s screen and sees the big red number at the top, he puts his phone away.

“Want to take the kids to the park?” he says.

The grandfather doesn’t like this park; there’s nowhere for him to sit while the twins spin on the rickety merry-go-round. Jack, Pot, Jack, Pot. When his son isn’t looking, he walks over to the trees and pulls the tablet out of his jacket and gets a few pulls in. It doesn’t feel the same with the volume down, there’s less of a rush as the pictures spin in front of him.

“Dad.” His son puts a hand on his shoulder. “This is family time. Come watch the kids.”

“You’re doing a great job of it yourself,” the grandfather says, shoving the tablet back into his jacket.

“I see what you’re doing,” his son says.

“It’s the only way to occupy myself out here,” the grandfather says. “I can’t exactly climb up the jungle gym.”

“You’re their grandfather. Spend time with them.” There’s anger in his voice.

“Here I am.” He pulls the tablet back out and it lights up.

Jack and Pot have hopped off the merry-go-round and are running in dizzy little loops. The grandfather tries to figure out if they’re running toward the swing sets or the monkey bars. Then he gets back to the slots.

“I’ll be right back,” his son calls to him from down the path. “Watch the kids while I’m gone.”

“What?” the grandfather says, but his son has already rounded the curve through the woods, out of earshot.

The twins don’t seem to notice that their father has gone. Turns out they were headed for the swing sets and now Jack and Pot fly back and forth like mirrored pendulums. The grandfather can’t look away from them now – he knows how fate works. The second he gives it another spin the kids will disappear, run off into the woods, get nabbed by a pervert. So he crosses his arms and crouches on achy knees and watches the twins count time in opposite directions.

Before he knows it, a familiar surface has scooped him up from behind: his chair, leathery and plush. But it’s missing its arms. He turns his head and finds his son there, grinning, breathing heavy.

“Lost the arms carrying it through the front door,” he says. “But now you have no excuse.”

The grandfather sits, stunned, eyes fixed on Jack and Pot as they scramble toward them to see the new arrival. He keeps the tablet in his jacket as the five year olds try to lift him up in the chair with their five-year-old muscles, giggling as he doesn’t budge. The playground looks empty without them on it. 