“Serendipity,” Gramps calls for her, and pats his hands against his legs. “Come here, girl!” She does a circle in front of him and sits down for Gramps to give her head rubs. She raises her face, her nose wiggling as she sniffs the air, wagging her tail, following her nose into the kitchen.

“Now, don’t worry,” Gramps says, “I’m cooking faken and the real stuff for the carnivores.”

“Hear! Hear!” Noah says, raising his hand.

I follow the scent as well. I hear humming coming from behind the open refrigerator door. Then Mom stands up, and I can see that she is holding a carton of eggs in one hand and milk in the other, and wax paper-wrapped butter in the crook of her arm. She closes the fridge door with her foot as she turns toward the counter.

“Am I dreaming, or are we having French toast?”

Mom throws her head back and laughs—and for just a second I see it: the resemblance to Grandma in the picture Gramps now keeps on his nightstand.

“You’re not dreaming,” she tells me.

Mama comes in the kitchen then and says, quietly, “Why don’t you and Serendipity go and give Gramps his gift now?” She hands me the box I wrapped last night in my bedroom with the comics pages from the newspaper. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

Serendipity jumps up on the couch and curls into a ball. Gramps is sitting in his favorite chair, which we brought from his old apartment.

“Look at that,” Gramps says, hitching his chin in the direction of Serendipity. “She’s at home already, isn’t she?”

“Yep,” I say, sitting down next to him. “How about you?”

“Me?” He rocks his hand from side to side like a seesaw. “Well, I’m getting there.”

“Good,” I say, and then I pull out the box from behind my back and hold it out to him.

“Sassafras!” he says, smiling big and bright as he turns to me. “What do you have there?”

“It’s an early Chrismukkah gift for you,” I tell him. “From me and Serendipity.”

Gramps smiles as he carefully unties the string and unwraps the box. He pulls off the lid and removes all the tissue paper, and gasps. “Did you finish?”

I nod. “I wanted to get it done before Jude gets here, because then I would’ve had to wait a whole other week to give it to you.”

“Gee,” he sings, as he examines the cover.

“Look at what it says on the inside,” I tell him.

He reads, “The Interstellar Adventures of S. Hawkins, Special Agent by Sadie Kathryn Eleanor Mitchell-Rosen.”

“After that,” I tell him, “on the next page.”

He turns the page carefully, and I can see him reading the words to himself first. He looks up at me then, his eyes all misty, but he clears his throat and continues, “For Edwin Mitchell, the best Gramps in the world.”