Olaf wisely (for him, at least) says nothing about how sixteen is a plenty good age to be drinking. In fact, in the Johnson family, it's practically starting late. "I started off in Norsewood, at the time. It's in the middle of the northern island of New Zealand," he offers. "Not exactly the worldwide hop, but not what I was expecting."

He shuffles his drink, makes sure his joint is securely tucked away, and extends a hand out to the girl. "I'm Olaf," he greets her warmly. "Now, this pile of translucent goo," he says, using both hands to frame the question. "Very important. Is he still coherent? I mean, is he aware he's a pile of translucent goo? Because that's a new standard for bad luck."