I help buckle Clay into his car seat. Gram looks down at the key in her hand for several seconds before she finally turns it in the ignition. A gust of hot air hits us in the face, and I quickly adjust the vent to face away from her.

“You okay, Gram?”

“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice shakes as she backs out of the parking space. I watch her carefully as she drives around the lot, searching for the nearest exit. She squints at the signs, rubbing her eyes as if her sight is the problem.

“This one.” I point to where she should turn. She obeys with a small cluck of her tongue. It’s the sound we use on the horses to soothe them, to let them know they don’t need to worry.

Click. The day Gram moved in with us two years and six months ago. Click. What I wore that day, how she made me feel, what the weather was like. Click. The day Gram forgot Clay’s grilled cheese sandwich on the stove and the fire department had to come. Click. The way Gram looked at me with growing alarm for a whole minute last week, as if she didn’t know who I was. As if I were a stranger.

2. The Brain

Some things I know about the brain: it’s pink, it’s about the size of a head of cauliflower, and it weighs around three pounds for the average adult. Our brains won’t allow us to tickle ourselves—it predicts the sensation and cancels the response to our own touch. It also generates enough electricity to power a light bulb.

If I found this information with one quick search on my phone, what will a more thorough study of the brain uncover? I can find why my memory upgraded and maybe even discover what’s making Gram lose hers.

When we get home, Mom’s in the kitchen with Dad, laughing while they make dinner together. This is how they’ve been since Gram moved in with us. They’re still busy, but they smile more, spend time together. The sadness is still there, but it’s not all the time; it only leaks out every now and then.

One of my first memories is of my baby sister, Maisie. Dad doesn’t believe I really remember her. He says I was too young. But I remember missing the way Maisie stared up at me like she knew what I was thinking. I remember the night she died without any warning—when the ambulance came and my parents cried and cried. I remember not understanding why Mom wouldn’t play with me anymore, why she stopped looking at me altogether.