I button my cardigan, shuffle out of the room in my slippers. I walk along the hallway, past the seats in the cove, to the common room. I poke my head in and see the chairs in the semicircle. No one’s here. I step in and go to the shelf of books and games. I pick up two boxes of puzzles amid a collection of board games.

Carrying the puzzles under my arm, I walk to Hilbert’s room. I need to see him, find out how he’s doing. I knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, I go in. He’s getting ready for bed, and it’s not until I’m inside that I hear him, whistling quietly to himself. He turns around, surprised to see me, his eyes brightening.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not tired… I thought maybe…”

“Hello,” he says cheerfully.

I want to ask him if Shelley is as concerned about his nails as she is about mine. I want to ask him if he feels pressure to keep going, to keep working. I want to see if those marks, that fungus, is still there.

There’s so much to say, to ask, but more than anything, I just want to see him.

“Thank you again for sitting for me,” I say.

Hilbert doesn’t reply. But he tilts his head as if trying to remember.

“How about a quick diversion before bed?” I ask. “I know how much you love puzzles.”

I let him choose. The box he picks reads “Pando Puzzle” on the front and has a nature scene, a large forest. Hilbert shakes all the pieces out on the desk. It’s not until I pick up the empty box that I see how similar it is to this place, to the scenery right here, outside the house. It’s striking. Still holding the box, I walk to the window, holding it up.

“Look,” I say. “It’s almost the same.”

Hilbert’s already focused on the puzzle, picking up pieces, trying to find matches.

“Isn’t that strange,” I say.

Hilbert looks at me. “All those trees out there look just like these,” he says. “I’ve looked at them a long time. There are so many, but they end up blending together.”

I stare out at them. I try not to blink. He’s right.

“Have we done this one before?” he asks. “You and I?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“We should take turns,” he says. “With the pieces.”

I lean against the desk, and we put the pieces together one at a time, as we find them, occasionally glancing up at each other.

I feel my stomach grumble. When was dinner? When did we last eat?

“I believe,” he says, “that Pando is the world’s biggest organism. And certainly one of the oldest.”

Hilbert fits one piece with another. Then I do the same.

“It,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“It. The trees. The Pando. There are many trees, but they’re actually one… all together.”

“What do you mean?”