“That’s eleven out of the twenty.” Shane picked up the typed stories they had already completed.

“I’ll do the rest in two days,” Colleen said. “I can do that many, I think. As long as I can reach everyone.”

“You don’t have to do them all.” Hallie set her palms behind her and onto the windowsill and then leaned back, her hair falling into her eyes. “I will do a few. I’m sorry.” She paused. “Tomorrow I’ll bring the timeline for us to go over after we meet with the social worker.”

“What do you mean?” Shane asked.

“I’d like your help.”

How hard could a timeline be for a man who’d led such a simple life? Colleen wondered. They weren’t tracking ancestors without records or names. Smart-ass comments lurked on her lips, but the sadness in the room felt prescient, as if at any moment another piece of terrible news would wander through that slapping screen door.

Instead she said, “It’s confusing, what some people say. But no one remembers things exactly right, do they? If you ask thirty people about the same night that happened thirty years ago, each person will remember it differently.”

“Yes,” Hallie said with an agitated flip of her hand in the air. “We never know the whole truth about a memory. It can be . . .” She took another breath, as if filling her lungs with courage. “Memories aren’t always the truth. They aren’t always true.” She paused and glanced between her sister and brother while she bit the right side of her lower lip. “Let’s try this.” She glanced at her brother and then at Colleen. “Do you remember my thirteenth birthday party?”

Colleen closed her eyes, searched the past. “Help me out. Princess or circus theme?”

“Neither. It was the Olympics. We had little stations and we divided our friends into teams. You were the captain of one and I was captain of the other.”

“Yes.” Colleen opened her eyes. “Mother made the cake and it had the Olympic circles with your name straight across it. We had a piñata that looked like a gold medal and Dad made stations for high jump and sprint and then created fun ones like beanbag toss and watermelon-eating contest.”

“Yes.”

“So we remember it the same. How fun it was. How nice.”

“Do you remember which team won?” Hallie asked, tenting her hands under her chin.

“Yes. Yours.” Colleen smiled.

“Do you remember what you did when it was time for the medal ceremony and Dad gave out the candy necklaces with a circle of chocolate in gold and silver foil hanging from the middle?”

Colleen shook her head, confident in her memories. “He didn’t do that. You just won and we had cake and . . .” Colleen paused. “There wasn’t a medal ceremony.”