“I am not going to this,” my dad says as I’m doodling on the refrigerator whiteboard. (A lopsided heart with squiggly arms dons a pair of swimmies as a big wave comes.) He has one arm through his shirt and the other defiantly at his side. “You are not going to push me around a track with a bunch of sick people while other people watch.”

“Scott, your sister got us the tickets, and the doctor highly recommended we connect with people who understand. We’ve been doing this alone for four years. It’s time we start taking suggestions.” My mom yanks his arm through his jacket sleeve while going on and on about the importance of community. “I got the ladies at work involved, because what we’re doing hasn’t been working. The sickness, whatever you want to call it, is progressing. We can’t just not go. ”

“Oh, yes, we can.” My dad whips his head around and squints out the window. I hold my breath. He doesn’t say anything about the tree, which makes me hopeful that today is a good day. Or would be, if mom weren’t a dictator.

“We are doing this as a family,” she says, and shuttles us into the car as quickly as she can. It’s one of those days in spring when all the birds come out of the cracks of winter and suddenly there’s hope again that we’re not going to have to wear long johns forever.

For the whole ride, my dad sits in stony silence. I never used to be afraid of him, but sometimes the disease replaces his gentleness with harshness. It’s freaking scary. Unlike the monsters under my bed that he used to shoo away, this is petrifying because it’s real.

By the time we get to the track at school, my level of dread is up over my ponytail. The chorus of cheerful voices belonging to the women my mom works with threatens to smother me—death by upbeat pillow. Why do we have to be amped about something so terrible? It’s disingenuous, and I look hideous in this shade of orange.

We pass streamers and posters and clusters of people in matching T-shirts with corny things on the front. The turf is saturated with water; mud is threatening to do a global takeover.

“Hey!” one of the women calls to my mom, and before I know it, we are jammed under a tent with this woman my mom works with and eight other ladies who probably all go by Donna.

“Over here,” one of the Donnas says, setting my dad up next to a woman in a wheelchair.

“THIS… IS… MY… MOTHER… VIVIAN,” Donna says to my dad. “She has Alzheimer’s,” Donna whispers to my mom.

“Nice to meet you,” my dad says, and it is obviously not very nice at all.

“Cake?” another Donna asks, coming around with a slice that says Fight in pink icing.

“Why do I have to keep this old lady company?” my dad whispers to my mom. Vivian is putting a bright T-shirt on and trying to hand me another one too. She also keeps calling me her “sweet Carla,” which, honestly, is kind of nice.