“Where else would it be?”
“Near the door.”
“That is not a normal place.”
“It is if you don’t enjoy carrying rubbish through the kitchen.”
“This was your design.”
“Then I disagree with my past self.”
“You often did.”
He found the drawer containing dishcloths without help.
His hand stopped on the handle.
“Did I know that?”
“I didn’t tell you.”
A smile rose slowly.
He opened it.
“Dishcloths.”
“And batteries.”
He looked inside.
“And seven screwdrivers.”
“You kept putting them there.”
“Efficient.”
“Unacceptable.”
His smile widened.
The evening offered these tiny discoveries and refused to explain them.
He knew which window stuck.
He reached automatically for the switch that controlled the light above the stove.
He opened the correct side of the wardrobe when he wanted a clean shirt.
None became a complete memory.
Each made him brighter for a moment and sadder afterward.
At nine, he struggled to keep his eye open.
“Bed,” I said.
“No.”
