No answer.

I try to channel the bravery of S. Hawkins and grip the handle of the umbrella tightly as I open the back door and follow the path of stones through the backyard, past the fairy fortress, toward the shed.

I hear sounds coming from inside, like things are being moved around. My first thought: It’s an art thief, here to steal Mama’s mosaics. They’ve done something with Gramps. Locked him in the trunk of a car or blindfolded him and set him loose in the woods to try to find his way back, but not before they had finished the heist—this is probably why my moms don’t like me watching Noah’s action movies.

“Hello?” I yell, my steps slowing down the closer I get.

More sounds: something being dragged, clicking, and footsteps. I keep my eyes wide open, watching closely, my umbrella at the ready. I stand on the other side of the door and inhale—I’m brave, I try to tell myself—and just as I take a step, I slam directly into someone.

I scream, gripping the handle of my umbrella so hard that I accidentally press the button that makes it pop open, and the person in front of me—who I can no longer see because of the rainbow of colors blocking my view—also screams.

“Sass!”

I fumble to move my umbrella, but then I can see that it’s Gramps, eyes as wide as mine, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Gramps!” I yell back.

“Don’t you know not to sneak up on old people?” he says, leaning over with both of his hands on his knees, breathing out a big whooo sound.

“Sorry, Gramps. I said hello first and you didn’t answer!”

“Well, don’t you know old people can’t hear? At least this old person, anyhow.”

I try to peek around him to see inside the shed.

“What are you doing?” we say to each other at the same time.

“Expecting rain?” he asks, gesturing at the umbrella now on the ground.

“I thought you might be a burglar.” I pick up the umbrella and prop it up against the side of the shed. “Or something,” I add.

“I see,” he says, pulling the shed door closed behind him.

“So . . . what are you doing out here, Gramps?” I ask again.

Gramps presses his lips together like he’s about to either smile or frown but hasn’t decided which. “Here,” he says, holding his arm out. “Let’s take a walk, you and me. Walks are good for our health.”

We follow the path that leads to the gate at the back of the yard. Gramps opens it and lets me go first, latching it closed behind us. When we get to the clearing, I think about how this was where I first saw Dewey.