Stage two—anger. She said anger was something you were going to be prone to as the disease becomes more pronounced. She said there will be mood swings ahead, that you’re going to get pissed off at the disease, at life, at those trying to help. You’re going to be snapping at people and saying mean things. You thought earlier it might be useful to push Sandra away—useful for her—but after today, after listening to Beverly, well, you’re as scared as ever. There are drugs to make you more comfortable—us more comfortable—and she said this journal was a good idea and asked if Sandra could read it because it might help chart the progression. You said you’d think about it, but you should have just said no. This is for your eyes only, buddy. Remember that.

So denial and anger are the two things you’re going through now. Bargaining is next. Not sure who to bargain with, really. Who do you have to sell your soul to around here to get a clean bill of health? It’s possible within the next few weeks you’ll end up telling Doctor Goodstory there must be something, begging for anything that money can buy, just get you into the next clinical trial that is showing some kind of promise, doesn’t have to be the next sure thing—at this point you’d take the next maybe thing. You’d sell the house and use the money to bribe your way into any kind of trial at this point—who wouldn’t?

You told Beverly it felt like The Very Hungry Caterpillar was about to make its way through your mind, leaving holes everywhere it went as it gorged itself on memories before turning into a butterfly and taking flight. You told her you were starting to think of the man you’re going to become as The Jerry Replacement, a version of you that would function on different levels, and you were worried about the kind of person he would be. A kind man? Short tempered? How many of the same qualities would you share with him?

She said there would be good days and there would be bad. Take from that what you will, Future Jerry.

You can’t remember what the fourth stage of grief is. You were going to look it up online earlier, but, eye-roll, you can’t remember the password on your computer. It’ll come to you soon, no doubt, and if not Sandra will know it. She knows everything—you just don’t want her to know you can’t remember it.

Beverly was here for three hours. It was a long day, and she gave you both some worst-case scenarios and some best-case scenarios. It’s possible you could be in a nursing home within the next few months. Can you believe that? A few months! She stressed that was the worst case, but the fact that at forty-nine you got Alzheimer’s, well, isn’t that already worst case? You shook her hand when she left, and Sandra exchanged hugs with her. When she was gone, you sat down with Sandra and between you decided it was time to tell Eva. She’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night. She’ll ask to pass the salt, and you’ll say sure, and by the way I’m dying. Jesus . . . there’s no way to tell her in a way that isn’t going to devastate her. You can imagine her sitting the same way she did with your mother, reading To Kill a Mockingbird to you, pouring a glass of water and asking you every now and then if you’re okay.

So it’s good news, bad news time. Good news—you’re still sane and you still know your name! Perhaps all good news can be rhymed in the future. And you found your credit card—it was in the yard. See? A perfect rhyme. Except it wasn’t in the yard. You’d used it to buy cat food the other day from the supermarket and left it there by accident. They called the following day to let you know.

Bad news—you don’t have a cat. It died six years ago.

He wakes up thinking about the money. Large bundles of cash stuffed into duffle bags, two security guards tied up and left in the vault, the bank manager with a hell of a concussion, and a future of beaches and pussy and maybe he’ll even get a tattoo to celebrate. After all, it’s not every day a job like this can be pulled off—they’ve gotten away with 3.4 million in cash, divided up three ways—he can retire on a million dollars and blow the leftover on partying.

He sits up on the edge of his bed and looks at his wrist where there is no watch and he wonders what the time is, where they’ve stopped, and all he wants to do is get back to the cash, which they buried beneath the farmhouse, which will stay buried until things die down. The key is to be patient. There is a book on the bed next to him. Vault. It’s written by a guy named Henry Cutter, and the name is familiar, but he can’t place how, even though it feels like it ought to be important. He stands up and stretches, then takes off his robe and pulls on a T-shirt and . . .

And his name is Jerry Grey. He is fifty years old and an Alzheimer’s patient. He is an author and not a bank robber. Vault is one of his books. This is a nursing home. This is his life.

The news is so sudden he has to sit back down on the bed. There is no farmhouse. No cash. No security guards. Just madness. He looks to the bedside table, but his journal isn’t there, nor is it on the bookshelf where there are other copies of his books. He moves to the chair by the window and looks out at the gardens and watches the sun turn shade into light one degree at a time. He can remember pieces of this morning, just small snippets. He was in Crazy Jerry Mode, which is what he sometimes calls it. He finishes getting dressed then heads out to the dining room, desperate for some lunch. Eric sees him and comes over, a big smile on his face.

“How are you feeling?” Eric asks.

“I feel . . .” Jerry says, then thinks of the best way to sum it up. With the truth, he decides. “I feel embarrassed.”

“That’s the last thing you need to feel,” Eric says.

There are people everywhere, murmuring voices, clinking cutlery. A guy with a chunk of his skull caved in is being wheeled towards a window. He thinks the wheelchair guy’s name is Glen and he used to be a prison guard until his own private destiny landed him in here with the rest of them.

“Then why do I feel it?”

Eric tells him he has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, and he had forgotten—it’s the kind of thing he’d have forgotten even before he picked up his hitchhiker, a guy by the name of Dementia with a big fat capital D.

“I’ve remembered,” Jerry says.

Eric smiles at him, an all-knowing smile, and if Eric can read his mind then he’s forgotten all about it. “Do you remember sneaking out yesterday?”

“What about yesterday?”

“You wandered into town.”

Jerry laughs. Then he stops laughing, because it’s no joke. It’s coming back to him.

“It’s the third time over the last few months,” Eric says.

“The third time?”

“Yes,” Eric says.

Jerry shakes his head. “I’m not sure about the other times, but I remember yesterday. Not all of it. Not the wandering, but I remember meeting Eva at the police station. I remember walking along the beach before being brought back here. I wanted to go home. I still want to go home.”

“I’m sorry, Jerry, but this is your home now.”

“Until I get better,” Jerry says.

“Until then,” Eric says, and smiles. “Let’s get some lunch into you.”

Jerry eats his lunch by the window, where he can look out at the trees bordering the ground. They go for miles in most directions. There are lots of roses and daffodils everywhere, and some of the folks who wander the corridors of the nursing home are pulling weeds and soaking up the spring sun. When he’s finished eating, he goes back to his room. He picks up A Christmas Murder. He knows it’s his first book, but it’s been so long since he’s read it that he can’t remember the details. He sits in the chair with his feet up on the chair opposite and starts reading, and realizes it’s not just the details he’s forgotten, but most of the entire story. He’s thirty pages in when Eric comes and gets him, telling him his doctor has arrived, then leads him to an examination room.