She bounced along, nattering away about koala bears, the topic of her science report. A koala’s not actually a bear but a marsupial. It eats only eucalyptus leaves—two pounds a day. A koala’s fingerprints are indistinguishable from human fingerprints.

“You don’t say,” he remarked. “That’s cool.”

“Did you tune my uke for me?” she asked. The tiny instrument was tucked in its case in her backpack.

“I taught you how to tune it yourself,” he said.

“What if I get nervous at Show and Tell and forget?”

“You won’t forget. And what’d I tell you about getting nervous?”

“Breathe, slow down, and remember I play like a boss.”

“Exactly. You’re gonna dominate Show and Tell.”

“Can we do something fun after school today?”

“Heck yeah.” He lifted his face to the sky. Autumn was San Francisco’s summer. The days were bright and warm, scented with drying leaves and fading flowers and the ever-present salt air. He tried to knock off work early on the days he had Dorothy. “How about we go get you a kite in Chinatown and take it up to Kite Hill?”

“Yes! Yes yes yes yes yes.” She danced in a little circle around him.

He nodded a greeting to Amber’s mother, who was single and kept wanting to go for coffee. Thanks, but no, nice lady, thought Peach. Since the divorce he’d gone out with a few women—enough to convince him he wasn’t ready to hand his heart over to somebody.

“Got your lunch?” he asked Dorothy.

“In my backpack.”

“Library book? Permission slip? Water bottle?”

“Yep. Yep. Yep.”

“Okay then. Love you, squirt.”

“See you when I come back around,” she said. Her smile lit the world even as her words broke his heart. See you when I come back around.

Natalie struggled up the hill with her grandfather in his wheelchair. She was learning to find accessible routes to their favorite places, but this one might be a fail. She was determined, though. Getting out and about seemed to be good for his head.

Dr. Yang was concerned about symptoms that appeared unrelated to Grandy’s dementia—digestive issues, respiratory troubles. He was bringing in more specialists and ordering more tests. He had shown her pictures of Grandy’s brain. He’d given her brochures with information about the different types of dementia and the path it might take, none of them encouraging. He’d increased the dosage of meds for the condition and scheduled another appointment. The pills might decelerate the process, but her grandfather’s memory was in danger of being slowly erased.

Sometimes he woke in such a state of disorientation he couldn’t find his way to the bathroom. Other times he insisted his dinner tasted like scrap metal and that he heard the wind in his ears.