“Uh, yeah, Dad,” I say, sitting down on the love seat as Jack Tripper concocts another sitcom scheme onscreen. “Listen, I talked to Tracey . . .”

He pauses, thinking.

“She works at the front desk,” I say gently, willing him to remember.

“I know that,” he says, an edge in his voice.

“She told me you think someone stole your watch.” I observe his face.

He looks up and meets my eyes, instantly angry. “I don’t think that, I know it. You’re treating me like I’m a child, Chloe, like I don’t know where my own stuff is. The people here are taking my things and I—”

I stand up and cut him off. “How about I look for it, okay?”

He makes a big show of shrugging. “You aren’t going to find anything in here. I looked already and I can tell you, it’s not in this room. Someone took it.”

I suppress a sigh and look under the bed. Behind the toilet. In the shower. All places his things have “mysteriously” ended up before. Finally, I check the fridge, and behind the half gallon of 2% milk, there it is.

I hold up the watch. “Found it.”

Dad squares his shoulders. “I did not put that there. Someone else must have snuck in here and—”

“Dad!” I nearly shout, before I can stop myself. “Why would someone do that? Why would one of the residents or one of the nurses come in here, find your watch, and hide it in the fridge? What kind of sense does that make?”

Dad looks away from me, toward his lap, and the expression that comes over his face is instantly familiar to me. Eyes cloudy, unfocused. “I don’t know,” he mutters, staring at his hands.

I’m well aware that my frustration doesn’t help him—in fact, it makes it harder for him to communicate with me. Asking him questions and putting him on the spot only makes him more agitated and confused, and I know that. But when I’m dealing with the same problem again and again, it’s hard to remember.

“Hey.” I cross the tiny room in three steps. “I’m sorry for shouting. I didn’t mean it, okay?”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m sorry this is happening and I’m . . . I’m sorry I’m such a burden.”

This is the worst part, the part when he realizes what’s happening. The part when he knows he has a disease, knows that his brain tissue is shrinking and his cells are degenerating, even if he can’t say it in those words. I bite my lip and hold out an arm.

“You aren’t a burden,” I say with force, as if that will make my words stick in his brain. And I believe that. This is hard and it sucks, but if I have the choice between seeing this shitty glass as half-full or half-empty, then I’m gonna pick half-full every time. Because my dad may be different, but he’s still my dad. Our relationship may not be what I wish it were, but at least we have one.