Max hops out to help. He smiles at Gram. “Hi, Mrs. Carter. It’s Max from the stables. Let me help you inside.”

“Come on, Gram,” I say. “It’s okay.”

She blinks at me, confusion blanketing her. I want to shake her. I want to make her snap out of this fog she’s in. She’s been forgetful before, but not for this long. Not like this.

This isn’t the Gram I know. The one who takes charge and bosses everyone around. The one who moved in after Mom had Clay and made me feel loved again. But her blank expression is the same one I’ve seen more and more lately. And it scares me.

Max murmurs something to Gram as he gently helps her into the car, and it reminds me of his kindness to the horses at the stables. I guess it’s just me he teases.

Mr. Rodriguez shifts the truck into gear and flicks a concerned glance at Gram. “Do you remember anything about where you parked?”

Gram’s lower lip trembles, and I know I have to do something. I can’t let her cry in front of Max and his dad. Gram never cries.

I squeeze my eyes shut and picture driving here earlier this morning. I’ve always had an outrageously good memory, but I’ve learned to keep it to myself. When I was really young, I thought it was something everyone had. I found out the hard way that people think it’s weird when you remember what they wore six Thursdays ago or what they ate for lunch a year ago from Monday.

Gram is the only one I trust. The only one who really knows about my memory. And she needs me now. She needs me to remember where the stupid van is.

I’ve become so used to ignoring my memory that it feels strange to work to remember something instead of pushing it away. Even when I don’t use it, I always sense it’s there. Somewhere in my brain. Waiting.

In the past, some memories would filter through: dates, names, what people did or said. Usually, it was because the day was an emotional one for me. Sad, angry, happy—it didn’t seem to matter what emotion as long as I felt it deeply.

But it isn’t until right now that I make myself remember every second of this day. I’ve never tried to recall something that happened only a few hours ago. I concentrate, forcing myself to open up the part of me I’ve kept tightly shut. Scenes of today appear like a movie in my mind. Each scene is separate; each hour has its own place. I experiment, moving the scenes around as if I were watching them on TV. I rewind one and I can see every minute, every second. I don’t stop until I find the moment I’m looking for.