It will all be fine.

Although he never used to indicate.

But apart from that, everything is as it used to be. He remembers.

“Okay, Dad, turn left here, that’s it, nice and slow,” I say, pointing towards the factory. He can do a few laps of the building.

In the driver’s seat, Dad looks so ordinary. “How does it feel?” I ask him.

He looks at me. “How does what feel?”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I say, pointing at the windscreen.

“We’re not on a road,” he says.

“No flies on you, Mr. Keogh,” Iris tells him.

He drives around the building four times. “We’re not getting anywhere,” he says, shaking his head.

Behind the factory, there is a narrow road. A boreen it would be called at home, gravelly with a line of grass running along the center. It leads to a small lake, circles it. I look at Iris. “What do you think?” I say, nodding towards the lake.

“No harm,” she says, scanning the area. “There’s no one around.”

“Okay, Dad, turn down this road.” And now we’re bumping along the boreen, Dad picking up a little speed now, with the prospect of the open road. I try to remember how long it’s been since he drove. Maybe five years. Maybe more. It was a gradual thing. He didn’t have an accident or anything. No dramatic incident. He just drove less and less until he didn’t drive at all, and when his license came up for renewal, Mam didn’t renew it and that was that.

“It’s beautiful here,” says Iris, looking out her window.

It is. The road curls around the almost perfect circle of the lake. The water is still. Not a ripple on the glassy top, which reflects the sky and the line of trees that fringe the road, tall and slim with bright green leaves bursting from swollen buds.

It takes less than three minutes to complete one circuit of the lake. At the far side, the water darkens to black. A fish breaks the surface, the silver flash of its body straining for the sky before it arcs and falls, returning to the water with barely a splash, the patterns of widening circles on the surface of the lake the only evidence of its grace.

Instead of turning back towards the grounds of the disused factory, Dad drives on around the lake.

I glance at Iris, who shrugs. “Once more with feeling,” she shouts at Dad. He responds by speeding up and I respond by telling him to slow down and in this way we complete another circuit. And then another.

I suppose I grow complacent. Which is something you should never do when you are caring for someone with dementia. Especially when that person is behind the wheel of a car. “We could have our picnic here,” I say to Iris. “Look, there’s a bench at the far end.”

“What did Jacques-of-all-trades make for us?” asks Iris, twisting her body around to look at me. I lift the lid of the wicker basket. “Let’s see, there’s a side of smoked salmon. And some of that smelly cheese. And a bottle of wine to wash it down.” I lift the bottle out to see what’s beneath it. This is what I am doing when it happens. Overhead, the low rumble of an airplane.