I don’t know how she lives like this. It must be so hard, forgetting something and not knowing whether this is simple human forgetfulness or the beginning of her disease. I don’t even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday, but I don’t have the fear that this might be due to something else—at least not yet.

It must be why Wren has one of the most impressive capacities for memorization I’ve ever seen. Ask her anything; she’ll have the answer. Just this morning after she arrived from Boston and hung out with me while I had breakfast, she completed the New York Times crossword puzzle in seven minutes—yes, she timed herself. It’s as if she reads encyclopedias before bed and absorbs all the information she reads. I’d rarely seen anything so impressive.

And to think that this might eventually be gone…

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, brows slightly cocked.

“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “So you never did anything special for your birthdays?”

Her eyes narrow, but I don’t think she picks up on my change of subject. At least if she does, she doesn’t say.

“No. I remember going to the library after school with my mom at some point, but I think I was the one who’d asked to do that.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I can’t imagine a Wren that wants to make a big fuss about her birthday.

She goes to peek in Callie’s bedroom once more, then comes back. “I’m giving them ten more minutes, and then I’ll tell them to get ready to eat.” Gaze tipping down to her watch, she says, “Pizza should be here soon.”

“Sounds good.”

She stands in the hallway, her back straight. Poised and in control, like always.

I let my head bob to the left. “So if the gingerbread-house making and the at-home spa was your dream party at eleven, why didn’t you ask for it?”

Leaning back against the wall, she says, “My mother was busy. She worked two full-time jobs, so time at the library sounded easier for her.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“I can see why you and Callie get along.” Two of the most selfless girls I know.

Wren looks back at my sister’s room. “She’s a good kid.”

“The best,” I say.

That earns me a smile.

And what a beautiful smile it is.

* * *

“Okay girls, what do you want to listen to?” I ask, scrolling through my phone for a good playlist.

The six of them are seated at the dining table, a feast of pizza, french fries, and chicken wings spread over the balloon-covered tablecloth. I’d bought cone-shaped birthday hats for all of them, but when I pulled them out of the plastic bag, Wren very unsubtly smothered a grin and told me the girls might be a little too old for those.