They pay less attention to her than they would to a yapping dog. In a practiced two-man scuttle, they cover ground rapidly, rushing her toward the gaping hole in the foliage from whence they emerged. The tops of Rose’s feet scrape along the ground. She bends her knees, lifting her feet to stop the damage. The men don’t notice the extra weight. Rose tires; her feet are dropping. She tries to run between them, but they are moving too fast.

The three of them shoot through a tunnel of leaves. On the other side are houses, lawns, sidewalks. Half a block away two police cars and two sedans, one white and one gold, are double-parked in front of a one-story brick building with wide glass entrance doors. A discreet sign bolted to the brick reads LONGWOOD MEMORY CARE UNIT.

Two uniformed men and four women, one in pale green scrubs, are standing on the sidewalk as if waiting for the delivery of Rose. One is an impeccably dressed woman in her seventies, tall with a straight back and determinedly brown hair. Her arms are crossed tightly, as if she is afraid a word will shatter her. Next to her is a diminutive redhead in her forties, hair blunt-cut across her eyebrows.

“I know you!” Rose screams. “I know you!” She laughs with relief. Her throat is so dry, the laugh sounds like a growl. Names, Rose needs their names, but nothing comes. The handsome older woman is a blank. When she looks at the small redhead, all that comes to mind is “bad boob job.” Trying to pull her arms free of her captors, Rose shouts again, “I know you!” The tall fragile woman turns her face toward Rose, her glasses flashing in the sun.

“You know me! Help me! For God’s sake, help me!” Rose tries to plant her feet, stop the parade. The men don’t slow.

“Gigi!” comes a call from behind. Twisting painfully in the orderlies’ grip, Rose manages to look back. Hair shining in the morning sun, strong tan legs flashing as she runs, a girl races up the sidewalk from the direction of the tree-lined arch.

“Grasshopper!” Rose shouts. She knows this girl, loves this girl. Rose is so happy, she babbles, unable to stop herself. “I’m dreaming. Or I’m Rip Van Winkle. How old am I? This is so crazy. I sat down. Then I woke up and—and, and I’m so glad to see you!” She laughs from sheer joy at the sight of the beloved face of her granddaughter.

“What are you doing here, Mel?” Boob Job demands.

“Just what I was going to ask you,” the elegant woman says to Boob Job.

“Did you Uber, sweetie?” the woman in green scrubs asks too loudly, too brightly—a woman trying to defuse a difficult situation.