Our grandfather did sleepwalk, but he hurt himself only once. Usually, according to Grandma, he started awake and then fell back into bed, but once he did leave their bedroom and opened up the backyard door to step out onto the porch. This was the same rickety porch I would stand on with my mother years later at Grandma’s birthday event, with the gnarled wisteria branches torquing through the wooden white trellis diamonds. My mother says she remembers it well; she was out on the mattress, having recently started sleeping most nights outside, under sheets that each morning had to be hung to dry on a line after a light wetting from the dew. She stirred awake and there was a silhouette, backlit by the yellow living room light that stayed on in case she needed to use the bathroom. She flinched, frightened. “Dad?” she asked, in a wavery voice, and the figure mumbled something about how he needed to fill the car up for the drive. Moonlight shone pale beams on the grasses. “Dad,” she said, “it’s the middle of the night,” and he said that the car was low on gas and they needed it full for the trip. “What trip?” “To the zoo,” he said. They had not been to the zoo in many years. She had loved the zoo; it had been one of her favorite places. He started to walk off the porch toward the side bushes and tripped on the step and fell and twisted his ankle, and my mother called for my grandmother, and the two led him back inside, my mother nude, my grandmother in some kind of patchwork cotton nightgown. In the kitchen, my grandmother attended to the scrape on his knee and bandaged his ankle. Pain had returned him to the land of the awake, and he scratched his head and apologized and told my mother to cover herself and after a few minutes, leaned on my grandmother, who guided him back to bed. Minnie slept through it all. My mother and her body, further dispatches from Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe, returned to the yard and slipped back under the sheets. In the morning, my grandfather remembered only parts of it, and he wore the bandage for a few weeks, sustaining a sprain. My mother told me she had been frightened by the surprise, but not of him, his taciturn self, his often annoyed and distant self, and always wondered instead if it had been his way of checking on her. She felt it acknowledged her mattress location as a kind of room. “He did not pick the front yard,” she said when she told me, nodding her head as if to seal in the idea. “Where the car was actually parked.” It is the main moment she retells when she says she felt a kind of love from her father.