I felt really small then. I imagined my grandparents in the kitchen, their bent-over figures doing the same thing they had been doing for decades, but slower, less steady, their decline undeniable. I used to be able to ignore their age, their increasing frailty. Now there was a diagnosis—an official label that spelled out our future, our waning time—and when they were gone, who would I have left? A long-gone mother. A father I had talked to more over email than in person. A stab of feeling suddenly so alone and human and with no control.

I could not help but direct these feelings at Louise. I rubbed my eyes to clear my head, steady my breathing. She was just some economics major at a fancy school, a network packet firmly traveling along its well-worn lines. Did that qualify her to be an expert in my life? I regretted telling her about grandmother’s condition. It was a family matter and should have remained that way, like how I had never once told any of my friends in school that I didn’t live with my parents, that my father had left when I was in elementary and my mother had done the same long before that.

I didn’t reply to her that night, or even the next morning. Instead, I biked to Arby’s first thing before grandmother and grandfather were awake.

The closest one was miles away. There used to be more, which was how grandmother became such a fan in the first place. But it turns out Massachusetts, especially the area along the shore, is quite passionate about roast beef, with tons of local shops that are admittedly tastier, though none of them have such a good coupon.

I biked all morning, out to the suburbs, along the river and the shaded path. I felt light for the first time since I came home. Like things would be okay as long as I remembered to take moments like this, to feel the wind, to keep moving toward a destination. I received some skeptical looks going through the Arby’s drive-through on my bike, but even those felt more amusing than embarrassing.

It was almost noon by the time I made it back to our neighborhood. The early morning chill had faded, and after the long ride, I was sweating and tired. I parked outside the café grandfather used to stop at for coffee on his way to work. I wondered if the café would remember this scene: this bike, parked temporarily out front, waiting for its owner. I sat on the bench to cool off before going home. Cambridge, without its students, was quiet. I pulled out my phone and read Louise’s messages again.

With my head clear, thanks to the ride, I clicked on her name. I mentally gathered a few things to talk about, a few backup points—about the weather and school starting, just in case.

can I call you?