I push open her door. The crumpled mess of her covers shows in the dim light of her bedside clock. Her bed is empty. The room is empty. The bathroom is dark and empty.

My heart clunks painfully against my ribs. Where is she? I’d read that people with Alzheimer’s might be more disoriented at night than during the day, and I flash back to the night I found her crying in her room. It even has a name: sundowning. They aren’t sure why it happens, but it might have something to do with emotional or physical stimulation during the day.

Today had been filled with a buttload of emotional and physical stimulation.

I check the kitchen and am on my way to the living room when I notice the front door wide open. Fog dampens the air and blows a cold breeze into the house.

I grab my coat out of the closet and shove my feet into my boots. All the cars are parked in the driveway, and I let out the breath I was holding. At least she isn’t driving around in the middle of the night. A gust of air slams the door behind me.

The air chills my bones. The fog is thick against the dull light of the streetlamps. I call for her, softly at first, but louder as I make my way down the road.

“Lulu!” Dad’s voice comes from the direction of the house. The weak gleam of a flashlight shines in my direction.

“Dad?” My voice breaks. Water drips down my nose and cheeks. I’m not sure if it’s fog or tears.

“What are you doing outside?” he asks, each word clipped like when he’s trying not to yell.

My silence stretches out despite any effort I make to talk. Nothing comes out of my mouth but gulping sobs.

He stops a foot away, the flashlight on my face like he’s making sure it’s really me.

“I… I’m looking for Gr-Gram,” I explain.

“Why are you looking for Gram? Is she gone?” His voice is rough and stark, stripped bare of his usual confidence.

I wave my arm around, trying to find the right direction. “She’s not in her room. I think she’s out here somewhere.”

He steps closer, aiming the flashlight past the bushes and driveways lining the streets. He holds his arms out for me, and I fly into them. He squeezes me so tight I can barely breathe.

I pull away. Every second is important right now.

“I woke up and Gram was gone. I think she’s been gone for a while.”

He stares down at me, trying to process what I’ve said. “Why would she go outside in the cold and dark?”

“We, um, had a really big talk about her past,” I say. “I think that might make her more forgetful or something.”