The open side door gives a clear picture of the kitchen. Clay is stuck in his high chair, his legs dangling at weird angles. He must have tried to wiggle out. I release the tray, and Olivia scoops him up.

“Lulu,” he cries pitifully. He reaches his arms for me, and I hug him close.

“Where’s Gram, little man?” I search each room, calling out for her or Mom.

“Bye-bye.” His body shudders as tears stream down his chubby cheeks.

“No one is here,” Olivia says, her eyes bigger than I’ve ever seen them. “They left him alone?”

I close my eyes, trying to calm down, and play back the scene of us rushing home. Click. “The van is still here,” I say. I run out the front door, Clay’s arms still wound securely around my neck. Gram sits in the driver’s seat of the van, staring straight ahead.

I open the door. “Gram, are you okay?”

Her eyes are unfocused and swimming in a fog of confusion. “Where am I?”

“You’re at home.” I hold Clay back when he tries to hurl himself at her.

Gram shakes her head. “No. This is not home.”

My stomach churns with fear. I turn and quietly hand off Clay to Olivia. She walks away, giving us privacy without my having to ask.

I rub Gram’s hands between mine. Her skin is cold as ice, and I try to warm her. “Gram, you’re home. It’s me, Lulu.”

I swallow my tears. It takes Gram longer than ever to come back to me. Seconds jump to minutes before she finally responds. Her eyes sharpen, and her mouth tightens like it does when she’s mad.

“Where have you been, young lady?” she asks. “You didn’t do your chores this morning.”

I laugh in relief, but that only makes her angrier. If I’m not careful, she’ll ground me before I can explain. “Sorry, Gram. I went to Olivia’s. Her parents are maybe, probably, getting a… divorce. Her dad left last night.”

“Oh no!” She cups a hand over her mouth. “That poor girl. It’s a terrible thing for a child when her father leaves. Is she okay?”

“She’s in the house with Clay. We just got home, and he was all alone. Where’s Mom?”

Gram blinks. I wonder if her memory is anything like mine at all. If she has to flip through scenes of the day before she finds the right one. Or are the scenes out of order—with some erased altogether?

“Did I leave him alone?” Her voice is small and scared, so un-Gram-like that her fear leapfrogs to me.

“I have it under control,” I say. “You need to stay with us until I have this figured out, okay? And you need to help me put the pieces together. Can you do that?”