“I need you to watch A Man on the Inside,” my best friend texted me. “I feel like it’s Willie.” 

Now, I take any recommendation she sends me. She did, after all, turn me on to the idea of discarding my pants once I’m home for the day.  

No, I still haven’t gone entirely pants-free. But I am in leggings and a cuddly shirt by about four every afternoon. 

One day, my wonderfully extroverted friend stopped by after my witching hour. I was in star-spangled sweatpants, a clashing button-down flannel, and Uggs with more holes than the Titanic. 

Thankfully, she loves me as much as I love her. She quickly deduced the situation and turned tail. 

It’s always wise to listen to my best friend – she of the no pants. She knows of what she speaks.  

Take, for example, the day she asked me to read Verity, by Colleen Hoover. 

“I need your take on this,” she said. 

I set aside the book I was reading and dug into Verity. 

Oh man. I was about to share our discussion of Verity. But that would reveal significant spoilers. As I am writing this five days after the series finale of Stranger Things while I linger on episode seven, I am very sensitive to spoilers. 

I had to dive for my phone yesterday when Preston of Preston & Steve announced he was about to discuss a spoiler. And social media? Forget it. Not until I am done episode eight. 

The obvious thing to do is for all of you out there to read Verity — and you should — so we can discuss it. 

Waiting. 

Waiting. 

What do you mean, you have a job? Family? My best friend recommended a book. You and I need to discuss it. How is Verity less important than, well, anything in your life? 

Fine. Just let me know when you’re done. 

Anyway, we had the same conclusion about the characters and plot of Verity, my best friend and I. 

Then there was the day I texted her this: 

“Gio is getting married!” 

And she knew, with no further explanation from me, that I meant Gio Benitez from Good Morning America. 

And was appropriately excited because that GMA crew is our family. 

They just don’t know it. 

There was also the time I texted her, “Have you seen Stir of Echoes?” 

“Am I a heathen?” she responded. 

Which is the only suitable answer. 

Oh my gosh. You haven’t seen Stir of Echoes? Or read the book?  

I need you to take a close look at your life. What can you excise? Breakfast? Stopping for gas? Your least favorite kid? Please. I’ll accept reading Verity and seeing Stir of Echoes. You don’t have to read the book. 

Although you really should. Let’s just say the source of the haunting is different than that depicted in the movie. 

And it was written by the brilliant Richard Matheson, who wrote many of The Twilight Zone episodes and — more importantly — Jaws 3-D.  

So, when my pants-free friend suggested A Man on the Inside, she didn’t have to tack on “I feel like it’s Willie.” 

But she did. And I was all the more intrigued. 

The plot is simple. A resident in assisted living is the victim of theft. The assisted living facility has been unable to solve the crime. 

A private investigator is hired. She, in turn, hires Ted Danson. Ted Danson moves into the facility, becoming the titular man on the inside, searching for the missing item and the thief. 

This is where Willie comes in. 

Willie has a blue blanket. Anywhere she goes in the Temple of Doom, that blue blanket goes too. 

“Like,” I texted my pants-free friend, “an elderly Linus.” 

I do not know the provenance of this blue blanket. It didn’t come from the house I grew up in, or from Willie’s apartment. 

It’s old, this blanket. Its synthetic fabric is pilled, the satin border fraying.  

And it’s enormous. I imagine it, at some point, covered a queen-sized mattress. 

When Willie isn’t using it, it’s carefully folded and set to rest atop her rollator.  

But when Willie sits in the TV room at the Temple of Doom, she drapes it across her legs, carefully arranging it so her feet peek out.  

That TV room is a cozy common area, with a fireplace, garden view, and kitchenette. 

Sometimes, the staff bring in a few wheelchair-bound residents to watch TV, to warm themselves by the fire. 

Willie usually demands they be removed, these residents.  

“They shouldn’t be here,” she sniffs. 

Yeah. 

One day, Willie told me her blue blanket had gone missing. 

She knew who stole it, she said. Another Temple of Doom resident. 

Willie, she told me, confronted the man. Demanded he return her blanket. 

He said he didn’t have it. 

“But I knew he stole it,” Willie said. “So I waited for him to leave his room and I snuck in and I took it back.” 

Now, the idea of Willie hiding around a corner, biding her time until the blanket thief made the critical error of leaving his room, of Willie creeping into another resident’s room I’ll admit is hilarious. 

It’s also incredibly false. 

Resident doors at the Temple of Doom lock automatically. The residents carry a key to their room, of course, and the staff have a master key. 

So, no. Willie did not Mission Impossible her way into another resident’s room. 

“I’d give anything for that story to be true!” I laughed to my husband. 

While visiting Willie over Christmas, I asked for her room key. I had to grab her coat. 

Willie handed me … not her keys. 

“Whose keys are these?” I asked Willie. 

Willie said she didn’t know. 

Then she carefully folded her blue blanket, setting it atop her rollator. 

Huh.