She felt Dune’s hands on her before she was aware the girl was in the room. One small firm hand on Vivian’s chest, the other slipping behind her back. It calmed Vivian down to be held this way, as if her heart itself was being cupped and soothed.

Vivian looked up and saw Dune’s mouth moving, heard the muted sound of a voice, tried to hear the child across the small gap between them. Nothing. She shook her head to let Dune know nothing was coming through. The child smiled, though there was still a deep sadness in her eyes.

“I—sorry! I went—more food!” Dune spoke loud, close to Vivian’s left and slightly better ear.

Vivian nodded. She didn’t care much for food these days. Her best days were softened by vodka.

Now, floating in the girl’s palms, she remembered that she needed to be changed. She hadn’t gotten used to the idea of asking Dune for that help, pointing to herself in the way the child had asked her to.

She’d had a small stroke four years before and her care at home had been a trio of professional women, strong through the shoulders, who came walking in with gloves on and changed her swiftly, nonchalantly, while yelling their hellos. She hadn’t seen them in a long time.

Dune, who was small-boned, had a slower, steadier way about her. She required Vivian to work, grasping the railing to hold her upper body up, pressing her heels down into the soft bed to lift her own hips. It was exhausting.

A slight shift of Dune’s nose let Vivian know the girl was aware of the need. Vivian was embarrassed. She’d always smelled like jasmine flower and lilac, and her lovers had told her they missed her smell when she was away from them. Now Dune pulled back Vivian’s sheet and together they began the slow ritual of rolling and scooting and pulling and wiping, the shit, shit, shit that now marked the hours of Vivian’s life.

When Vivian was once again dry and arranged against her pillows, Dune brought the straw of the water glass to her lips. Vivian loved the feeling of cool clear water over her tongue. She needed to figure out how to ask the girl to get her some more vodka and orange juice, though. That would make this all a little easier.

She was looking up at her granddaughter trying to figure out how to get a stiff drink when she saw Brendon enter Dune’s face, right there, his beautiful face embedded in her features.

She knew Dune looked like her father, but this was different, this was Brendon. He was looking at her with total adoration, like he had as a child, before losing his father, before their parallel lives in the Black power struggle, before he felt abandoned by her lack of enthusiasm for Kama.