“What the fuck?”

Devi was telling us about how to stylize our individual profiles to better match our memories, but we were already scrolling through the names.

“Who are these guys?” Nin asked.

“Do you think Dad knew about this?”

“I don’t know … but, I mean … jeez…”

Do you want to use Parental Controls on your father’s account? Devi asked.

“Yes!” we both said. So Devi set up a password that only Nin and I could unlock.

Okay, just customize your father’s access to be closest to his memories, and you’ll be ready to launch!

We thanked Devi and looked again at all the men’s names, then the Drugs & Alcohol folder with its many boxes for whisky, wine, cigarettes, and weed. “I guess we have to somehow ask Dad about all this,” I said.

Dad was downstairs at the kitchen table where he spent most of his days, drinking coffee and playing games on his phone. “Dad?” we asked. “We’re trying to fix Mom, but we have to ask you a couple questions. Did Mom have a lot of boyfriends before you two met?”

“She had a high school sweetheart and a guy she dated in college, why?”

We clicked on Romance, unchecked all the guys, and gave our father access only to the box for himself.

“What about drugs? Did you guys party a lot when you were younger?”

“We had a glass of wine from time to time.”

“What about cigarettes, marijuana, Ecstasy, cocaine?”

“What kinds of questions are these? No. She liked wine coolers.”

We opened the Drugs & Alcohol file and disabled his access.

We made it through a couple more difficult questions, and finally gave him limited access: only to the person he’d known our mother to be. Then Nin extended his contact case to him.

“I’m not putting those back in.”

“Dad,” she said. “Just try it one more time. We promise, if it’s not like Mom you’ll never have to use these again.”

Dad sat there, looking at the lenses. Then, finally, one by one, he placed them on his eyes and we logged on with him.

“Hon,” Mom said. She was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. “What are you moping around the kitchen table for? Come on, let’s take our walk.”

“How’s she know about our walks?” Dad asked.

“Lou, you better not be going senile, it’s what we do every day. Come on, get your coat.”

Dad looked at us, then back at Mom. “I guess we’re going for a walk.”

They were gone for over an hour, and when they got back Dad still had his contacts in, his fingers embedded within her holographic skin as if holding her hand. That afternoon, they worked together in the yard. I looked out the kitchen window and saw Dad standing by the back hedge with his clippers, talking to Mom. I blinked off Nostalgia and suddenly there he was, standing by himself, talking to the empty space by his side like a crazy person. We’d have to tell the neighbors about Mom’s hologram, but for the first time since the funeral I felt like maybe things weren’t going to keep sliding toward some awful place.