Dementia likes the quiet. I picture the disease like an olden day’s librarian; all tutting and shushing. And usually I oblige.

But right now, I am not worrying about the noise. And what Dad might make of it. What he might do. Like for example make a run for it. Or worse, make a run for me. I picture him running to the edge, his surprise as he reaches it, the flailing of his arms as he tries to halt, the tilt of him as he clears the edge, and then the fall, quiet in the end as he becomes smaller and smaller, down, down, down, to the sea, the waters below waiting to accept him.

In spite of this catastrophic thought, I continue to whoop. Afterwards, my throat will be sore, such is the thrust of it.

Somehow, I know that Winnie will sit on Dad if she has to. I know little about her, other than she has been kissed twice that I know of. And that she knows dementia. People who know dementia know what they have to do. And they’re willing to do it.

“Are you okay, Terry?” Iris asks when I stop whooping. I definitely couldn’t describe myself as okay. Terrified, certainly. Dizzy, absolutely. But also exhilarated. Daring. And sort of hopeful, but of what I’m not sure. A little fearless. But also stupid. I’m on a precipice for God’s sake. Then there’s carefree. Or just common or garden carelessness.

And of course irresponsible. I am needed elsewhere.

And there’s terrified again. There’s a lot of that. But energized. Youthful. Reckless. Awake.

It’s hard to describe how you feel when you feel so many things. In the end, I say, “Yes. I’m okay.”

Iris grins and says, “Me too.”

Coming back from the edge proves more difficult. Perhaps I am imagining it, but it seems to me, raising myself onto all fours again, that the wind has picked up. Strands of hair, having secured their release from the tight confines of my ponytail, fall into my eyes, across my face.

I move backwards, left hand right leg. Right hand left leg. When I get a rhythm going, I look up and see that Iris has raised herself into a crawl position, but has not moved back from the edge.

“Iris.” I stop crawling. She doesn’t respond. “Iris, come on.” Still she doesn’t answer.

Her face seems frozen in place, all twisted to one side, her eyes tightly shut and one side of her mouth pulled down. “Iris, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She makes a sort of guttural sound, and her whole body seems to shudder.

Her leg shoots out to the side—her foot misses my face by inches—and I realize it’s a spasm.

“Iris, what should I do?” I yell at her, but she can’t speak with the contortion of the muscles in her face. Now the muscles in her arms begin to move, and it looks like an electrical current, running beneath the surface of her skin. She lifts one hand, and the fingers contract and stiffen and her leg seems to collapse beneath her and she hits the chalk, which does not seem as soft as before, and she is so close to the edge and I don’t know what to do and...