An absent expression drifted across Georgia’s face, and for the millionth time I remembered, with a horrible jolt, she must have periods of confusion now. It was possible they’d get longer and closer together until they blended into one seamless vacuum, sucking up any remaining lucidity, erasing her essential Georgianess. We all waited as the silence stretched.

“What,” said Georgia eventually, not seeming to realize minutes had passed. She edged a thumb into Jonah’s hunched torso. “Wake up, sleepyhead. You’re falling over.”

“You were telling them you aren’t going to hurt yourself,” said Jonah in a strangled voice.

“No,” agreed Georgia, switching gears with ease. She still appeared composed. “I’m going to hibernate until some scientist fixes this thing.” Her eyes roved, searching the screen until they settled on me. “Kira, you’re on this, right? It’s happening. Someone will cure it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I promised her, although I held no such certainty. We’d never been able to reverse the damage caused by prion diseases like Creutzfeldt-Jakob, for instance, which wreak cerebral havoc in the brains of their sufferers, or certain kinds of demyelinating conditions like fulminant multiple sclerosis. But in the case of some similar kinds of encephalitis—brain inflammation—there had been more progress. Even now, doctors were advancing in the treatment of brain inflammation caused by the body’s own immune system. The research scientists arriving at work day in and day out, daunted but unbowed by all the failure so far, would never stop trying.

“Well, light a fire under their asses,” said Georgia. “I gotta see my baby girl grow up.” She pushed the ground with her feet, sending the swing rocking backward and forward, and drew her knees up to her chest, matching Jonah.

“Georgia,” said Zadie tentatively, her soft southern voice blurred. “I’m sure she must be sleeping, but . . . would it be okay for us to see Joanie Ruth?”

“Oh shit, y’all,” said Georgia, leaping forward off the swing; she stumbled a little, and Jonah caught her by the waist before she fell. “I forgot you guys haven’t seen her much.” She leaned forward, Jonah’s arms still encircling her abdomen, and tapped her head. “That’s just normal forgetting. On top of everything, I have new-mom brain, or whatever they call it. I’ll go fetch her.”

“Let me do it,” said Jonah gently. In contrast to a moment ago, he radiated steadiness as he eased Georgia back onto the swing, tucking a quilt around her hips. “You stay and chat with your friends.”

“Mind her little fontanel,” yelled Georgia to Jonah’s disappearing form. I recognized the quote from her favorite movie, Raising Arizona. She leaned back against the swing, smiling. “She’s a good baby.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Zadie, the perfect oval of her face glazed in a sheen of tears. “Feisty like her mom?”