“Morning, sunshine,” Mom said with a smirk.

Coming upstairs, she stopped at the landing as Archie stepped out of his room. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

“It’s too early for a witty comeback,” he said.

“Guess that means I win.”

Chuckling, Archie slung his backpack over one shoulder. Mom glanced at the book in his other hand and brightened.

“Anything useful?”

“Yeah, I’m taking notes. I might scan some pages too, to share with the family.”

“Good!”

It had been a week since Archie and Mom had agreed to be better at helping each other. Their relationship had already started to improve, and the new book was Archie’s first attempt to make good on his side of the bargain.

This one wasn’t a novel—it was a resource book about Alzheimer’s, written specifically for family members caring for someone with the illness. The language was dry as overcooked turkey, and Archie had to fight to keep his eyes from crossing every time he read it, but the information was useful.

The book recommended a simple but consistent daily routine. Patients were more likely to stay relaxed when they could anticipate their day, and when they didn’t feel rushed. That part should be easy, at least. Grandpa was a regimented person, so all they had to do was keep that going. The book suggested making a daily plan that covered everything from tooth-brushing to social activities. Even if they couldn’t always completely stick to the plan, it would give Grandpa choices and allow him to stay involved in running his own life for as long as possible. And careful scheduling could minimize the confusion and mood swings that often came on later in the day—a common Alzheimer’s side effect called “sundowning,” which Archie was grateful to understand better.

There were tips about making the house safer—installing handrails, avoiding trip hazards, placing locks on cabinets that contained anything potentially harmful. Thinking about a day when they might have to install locks made Archie sick to his stomach, so he skimmed over that chapter. It also recommended good fire safety, which would never be a problem in the house of a veteran firefighter. They practically had an extinguisher in every room.

Apparently certain uses of bright light could help an Alzheimer’s patient sleep better. And music could help bring back memories that would otherwise be elusive.

The book didn’t say anything about the power that stories could have. That didn’t matter, though. Archie had done research online too—enough to know that scientists were exploring all kinds of treatments for Alzheimer’s and that new findings were popping up all the time. If things as seemingly random as certain kinds of light and sound waves could have an impact, why not stories? Archie would never stop believing that the shared fantasies could slow the effects of the Alzheimer’s. Just three days ago, he and Grandpa had repelled an alien invasion and saved Earth. Archie had woven in details from a Journal story about Grandpa’s firehouse saving the wing of a hospital. It had only kept Grandpa lucid for a day, but still, that wasn’t nothing.

His sleepy eyes finally processed what Mom was carrying. A tray with a glass of juice and a plate of eggs and toast. He frowned.

“Is he bad today?”

Mom shook her head. “Just a little shaky. I thought this would be better.”

Grandpa never liked people waiting on him. That included serving him breakfast when he felt he could do it himself.

Archie buried his worry beneath a cheerful face. “Oh, okay.”

“Hope school goes well. Make five good choices, then one terrible choice, just to keep ’em guessing.”

Archie laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

With a smile, Mom moved farther down the hall. She tapped Grandpa’s door with the corner of the tray and then slipped inside. “Hey, Dad.”

Archie stood still, wondering if he should help. Mom’s parting smile had been too tense to be genuine. The bus might wait a few minutes for him.

What are you going to do, spoon-feed him?

Good point, Me.

He started down the stairs. On the fifth step, he heard glass break.

He sprinted back to Grandpa’s room and peeked around the doorframe.

“I’m sorry,” Grandpa said. “Don’t know how . . .”

Sitting in his favorite chair, he looked embarrassed as Mom scooped up pieces of glass and sopped up the spilled juice. This kind of thing seemed to be happening more frequently.

“No, no, it’s fine, Dad,” Mom said, her voice soothing and patient. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

It was the first time Archie had seen Grandpa today. He understood now: A little shaky had been Mom’s attempt to send him to school without this image in his head.

“Do you want to go anywhere today?” Mom asked. “Anywhere. You pick. I have to work, but I’m sure Violet can pick you up. And one of us will take you to the firehouse tonight like usual.”

Grandpa stared into the middle distance. His attention had wandered that quickly, and not toward something nice. Archie could see it. Grandpa’s expression was like a thin layer of stone on top of roiling lava, barely containing the chaos.

Archie’s heart sank. It was a bad day.

Mom looked up from her cleaning. “Dad? Are you okay?”

Blinking, Grandpa saw her again. “Penny,” he said. “Was I a good man?”

Mom’s expression clouded. “Why would you ask that?”

“I just . . . well.” He gripped the arms of his chair as if bracing himself. “There were days in the war. Bad days. Never talked about ’em, but right now, I can’t stop remembering. I . . . did things. Made bad choices.”

Archie stood thunderstruck. What was Grandpa talking about?

“They keep playing over and over, and . . .” He swallowed hard. “They make me wonder. About the man I was.”

Alzheimer’s was such a jerk, doing this to a man like Raymond Reese. Were the bad memories even accurate, or were they amplified and distorted by the disease? No wonder his rage kept resurfacing on bad days. What could a person say to make that better?

Mom put aside the broken glass and took Grandpa’s hands in hers.

“Dad,” she said. “I know there are things you regret. You may not remember, but you told me once about the war. About days when good choices weren’t even possible. Those days don’t cancel out the other choices you’ve made in your life. If I wrote down all the wonderful things you’ve done since—for your family, for your coworkers, for all the people you’ve helped—this house couldn’t hold all the journals. That’s the truth. That’s what you have to remember.”

So, whatever memory was plaguing Grandpa, Mom knew about it. Which meant it was probably real.

What had Grandpa done? Archie felt the overwhelming urge to sneak away and open the Journal, to tear through the forbidden pages until he found it. Only his promise kept him standing there.

Grandpa released a slow breath and sank back into his chair, the tension flowing out of him like steam. The turmoil under his expression seemed to settle. Squeezing Mom’s hands, he smiled.

“You’re a good daughter.”

“And you’re a great dad.” She smiled back, then gathered up the tray and the broken glass. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay. Give me ten minutes and I’ll bring up a new tray.”

“Thank you . . . Penny.”

“You’re welcome, Dad.”

As Mom moved toward the door, Archie remembered that he’d been eavesdropping. He flinched back, caught between running downstairs and staying put.

Too late. Mom stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. Closing her eyes, she sagged back against the wall and blew out a long breath. Exhaustion, grief, fear—they all rose to the surface now.

She hadn’t noticed Archie. Gently as he could, he cleared his throat. Mom snapped back to attention, trying to recover the happy mask she’d worn before.

She got halfway there, but then the mask shattered. Her eyes filled with tears. Archie felt his own eyes burning. They stood there, sharing a look that held an entire conversation. This wasn’t getting any easier.

“Is he going to be okay by himself today?” Archie asked.

“I . . .” She shook her head. “Zahira might be able to move some things around so I can take the morning off. If he’s not doing better in a few hours, I’ll see if Violet can come over this afternoon.”

Archie knew that was only a temporary solution. He’d caught enough glimpses of the family text thread to know that Aunt Candace had suggested hiring someone to look after Grandpa, at least part time. But if this was how Grandpa was with his loved ones, Archie couldn’t imagine how unsettled he’d be around a stranger.

Archie stepped closer and whispered, “He mentioned bad days during the war. What was he talking about?”

Now Mom’s grief was laced with tension. Looking at Archie, she seemed to struggle with whether or not she should speak. Then she squared her shoulders, as if physically shaking it off.

“Grandpa is the man you’ve always known,” she said. “Whatever happened decades ago doesn’t change that.”

“If that’s true,” Archie said, “why are you afraid to tell me?”

Mom’s expression was inscrutable. Did she hold back just because Archie wasn’t ready? Or because she believed it might change how he saw Raymond Reese?

Without answering, she turned toward her room. “Aren’t you late for the bus?”

She was right. Though Archie burned to know more, he had to move. Once again, life wouldn’t wait for him to be ready to face it.

The bell rang. Archie blinked.

Third period was over, and he barely remembered a word his science teacher had said. The same went for first and second periods.

Drifting through fog. That was how he felt today. Mechanically he gathered his things and headed for the door.

Zig caught up as he left. “Okay, we’re definitely gonna have to quiz each other, or the next test will not be fun for me.”

Archie grunted and kept walking, head down.

“You get any notes on that last part?” Zig continued. “It’s wild. I mean, how can light be a wave and a particle? Man, I cannot wait for chemistry in high school. I might actually be able to use that in—”

“No,” Archie snapped. “I didn’t get notes. Like it matters.”

Zig fell silent, and Archie felt like a jerk. None of this was his friend’s fault. It was no one’s fault. Which felt worse, somehow. Just once it would have been nice to have someone to blame for all this.

“Tough morning, huh?” Zig said.

They reached their lockers. Archie tried to summon the will to move his arms.

Zig didn’t open his locker either. He waited, supportive even in this small way.

“Yeah.” Turning, Archie leaned back against his locker with a sigh. “Sorry, man.”

Zig waved it away. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I . . . I feel like I’m watching him fade away. Mom can only do so much, and it’s tearing her up. Sometimes I help with the disease, but lately that’s been harder for some reason.”

Archie almost brought up what he’d heard this morning, but something made him stop. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it real. Or maybe he just couldn’t confess that, for the first time in his life, he had doubts about who his grandfather really was.

“You help with the disease?” Zig said.

“Yeah. You know, the fantasies that I act out with him. When I get it right, they hold the disease back. They sort of refresh Grandpa’s memory and help him feel like himself again.”

“Oh. Right. Um . . .”

Zig didn’t finish the thought, so Archie glanced over at him. He wore a troubled look.

“What, Zig?”

Zig shrugged. “Nothing, bro. Whatever you’re trying, I hope it keeps working.”

He was holding something back. Archie didn’t push it, though. Zig was trying to be supportive, so he decided to just be grateful. He should try being a good friend back.

“I’ll find someone who took notes,” Archie said. “Then quiz you till you pass out.”

Zig laughed. “Deal.”

Archie faked a laugh along with him. To his surprise, though, his arms weren’t quite so heavy anymore. Maybe he could make it through the day after all. He turned to face his locker.

As he moved, the corner of his eye caught a familiar splash of color. Even peripherally, as a smudge in his vision, he would know it anywhere.

Desta was coming out of the art room, which was odd since she didn’t have art class until later in the day. Then he saw the folder in her hands. Not the one that she brought to their project groups—the one that carried her sketches. Maybe she was doing something extra for art class. Interesting.

Archie thought back to the group meeting at his house—how Desta had made an observation that helped him with Mom. She’d seen something that Archie hadn’t. Maybe he could do the same for her.

“Catch up with you later,” he said to Zig.

“But your books . . .”

Archie dove into the stream of students moving to their next class. He weaved through them as fast he could without knocking someone over, until he caught up with Desta.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, Archie,” she said. “How was science?”

“Ask me after the next test,” he replied. Desta laughed, which bolstered him to continue. “So, I wanted to thank you.”

“What for?”

“You were right about my mom. Realizing that really helped.”

“Things are better?”

“Yeah. Feels like we have each other’s backs again.”

“That’s great, Archie. Really, I didn’t do much, but I’m glad it helped. How’s your grandfather?”

Archie’s anxiety, momentarily forgotten, roared back to life. “Um, well, some days he’s his old self. I just hope we can keep giving him those.”

“I’m sure it means a lot to him that you try so hard.”

Archie nodded his thanks, marveling once again at how much Desta cared, even about people she barely knew. He gestured at her folder. “Extra credit for art? Not that you need it.”

“Extra lessons.”

As they turned down a less crowded hallway, Desta flipped the folder open and showed him the top drawing. “Mrs. Matney’s teaching me chiaroscuro shading.”

“Ah, yes, churro shading,” Archie said. “Sounds delicious.”

Desta swatted his arm. “It’s a real technique, and you’d better not eat my drawings.”

“Well, stop making them sound like dessert.”

Desta laughed. “I’ve also been sketching booth ideas for my project. Something to make being a surgeon seem more exciting.”

“Come up with anything?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe. I hope. There’s only eight weeks left in the school year, and only four weeks until our essays are due. So that’s not a lot of time to finalize things. Consider this a friendly push to choose your focus.”

Archie hoped the embarrassment didn’t show on his face. “I know. I mean, thank you. I really am trying.”

“I know you are. Just remember we’re here to help.”

“Maybe I should just put every job I’ve thought of in a hat and pick one. That’s a good way to choose a career, right?”

“Yes, if you’re a cartoon.”

“Wait, I can be a cartoon? Why didn’t anyone tell me that?”

Desta grinned. “You’re hopeless.”

“Okay, then here’s a promise. By the time our group meets again, I’ll have a subject.”

“Great! I’m excited to see what you come up with.”

Archie started to say more, then hesitated. He needed to find the right words, like she had with him.

“Speaking of projects, I’ve been wondering—why do yours on medicine?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just, you light up when you talk about art. Seems like that’s what you really love.”

“Sure, but art careers are a fantasy. My parents have always said so.”

“Well, I mean, how do they know? Did they ever try?”

Oops. That was the wrong thing to say. Desta stiffened, her expression going stony.

“They have perspective that I don’t,” she said. “Surgeon is a real profession, and it contributes something to the world.”

“Hey,” he said gently. “If you end up really wanting to be a doctor, that’s awesome. But you’ll have years in high school and even in college to decide. So, why not talk about what you want to be right now?”

“Archie, it’s just a hobby.”

“Is that you talking, or your parents?”

Wrong again. Archie knew it the moment the words left his mouth. Desta’s whole demeanor slammed shut like a steel door.

“I know they’re just looking out for you,” he added hurriedly. “But grown-ups all seem to have regrets. I just want you to be happy.”

Desta’s eyes softened a little at that, but Archie could tell he hadn’t fixed the damage he’d done. She took a slow, deep breath, and he prepared himself to be verbally lit on fire.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, her tone formal and stiff. “But I’ve made my decision. I need to get to class now.”

She strode away. Archie watched her go, wishing he had more feet so he could kick himself in the face.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid

Just then, flute music trilled over the intercom. Classroom doors clanged shut. Archie whipped around, realizing what he’d just done.

He’d walked to the opposite side of school from his next class. He’d left his books in the locker, and he’d just missed the bell for the start of fourth period.

Perfect.