Kyle Joseph

His hands trembled as he nervously wrung them together while sitting on the hard, polished wooden bench. He was scared of his surroundings but wasn't entirely sure why. Glancing down at the gleaming golden bracelet on his wrist, he read the words but didn't entirely understand them. It was like being in a fog, unsure of what to do next. He was confused if he even belonged here or if he was being held against his will.

He stood up from the bench, not sure where to go next. The room was quiet. A fan was spinning overhead but the house made no noise—the air conditioning was off and the sound of birds chirping outside was barely audible through the walls. He was sure he enjoyed birds but he couldn't recall any of their names.

He walked into the kitchen and hit the button on his coffee machine, already tasting the warm liquid sloshing across his tongue and down his throat. Yes, that was exactly what he needed right now. He heard the sound of something dripping but he couldn't figure out what it was. No matter at all.

Had he taken the cat out? Looking around the house, he tried to find any sign of the creature but there was nothing. No matter, he'd look around later today. It was time to return to the bench, anyway, he figured.

Sitting at the bench again, he placed his hands on the piano keys. White and black stretched out before him in both directions as he ran his fingers across the hard rectangles. He pressed one of them down and a heavy tone broke into the room. It sounded alien to his ears—he couldn't quite place the problem but he knew his piano was broken now.

The sound of a door opening and closing came from somewhere behind him but he wasn't startled by it for some reason. He turned on the bench and saw a man entering from the laundry room. "Dad, you home?"

"I'm here," he said, calling out to this strange newcomer. "Who are you?"

"Dad," the man said, rolling his eyes, "I'm Harry. Same as I was last week. I'm your son."

"My son?" he asked. "No, my son was killed in the war."

"That was my brother," Harry said, "for the millionth time." The newcomer was carrying plastic bags full of something and set them on the kitchen counter, slowly removing the items and lining them up to be put away.

"I already went shopping, young man, you didn't have to bring all this food over here," he said.

"That was last week, Dad," Harry said, seemingly used to this by now.

"Well, Lori and I won't—"

"Dad," Harry said, coming around the counter and placing both his hands on his father's shoulders. "Mom is dead. Matthew is dead. The cat is dead. It's just you in here. Your name is Roy. I'm coming by to drop your groceries off and spend just enough time here so I don't feel guilty in the morning. Your nurse will be over later to look out for you for the rest of the day."

A relaxed smile came across Roy's face. "Thank you, young man, but I can manage everything all on my own. I'll head into town later to—"

"Dad, just stop!" Harry yelled. "You can barely tie your damn shoes by yourself, let alone drive a car. Go sit down, I'll make you some tea."

Roy did as he was told, moving back to the piano bench and taking a seat. He ran his fingers across the keys again, feeling the sensations deep in his bones. He turned and watched the newcomer in the kitchen bustling around as the kettle began warming up.

"You know I used to play piano in an orchestra," Roy said, grinning again. "I was one of the best, I wish I'd known you back then so you could come see me play."

"I did see you play, Dad, hundreds of times," Harry said loudly from the other room.

"Would have been a marvelous thing," Roy said to himself, turning back to face the piano. He played another note but it still sounded wrong to him in ways he couldn't entirely pinpoint. He didn't know which key to hit next once the first one was struck.

"Dad, you overflowed the coffee maker again. Stop hitting the button over and over!" a voice called out from behind him.

Roy barely even registered the words. He looked up and saw a framed picture of a beautiful woman with old skin and white hair looking back at him. "Who is that?" Roy asked as the newcomer came into the room carrying a steaming cup of tea.

"That's Mom," Harry said. "She's been gone for ten years, Dad."

"Is she an angel now?" Roy asked.

"Maybe, if you believe that kind of thing," Harry replied, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He looked down and pulled out a small plastic bottle containing a single tiny green pill from his pocket. "Dad," he said, his voice going hoarse with emotion, "I went and picked up your medication for you. It's this new drug they say is supposed to help people with Alzheimer's."

"Why would I need something like that?" Roy asked, hitting another key on the piano and hearing the wrong note.

"Listen, I want you to try it. Cost me a thousand bucks for just the one but the pharmacist told me to use it right away or it won't be as potent."

"If it'll make you feel better, young man," Roy said, "why not?"

Harry handed the pill over and Roy took it, downing it in one gulp and following it up with a swig from his tea. "Happy now?" he asked.

Harry watched his father with curiosity. "Do you feel anything?"

"Should I?" Roy asked, looking down at his arms as if he expected them to sprout fur or scales. He turned around on the wooden bench and began to look at the framed picture again. "Who is that gorgeous woman?" he asked.

Harry sank back into his chair. He closed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "I don't know how much longer I can—"

Suddenly, the sound of beautiful piano music filled Harry's ears. He snapped up in his seat and watched as his father's fingers flew across the black and white keys with grace and expertise matched by only a few others in the entire world. "You know," Roy said as his fingers continued to dance around the piano, "your mother and brother used to love listening to me play. I remember Matthew flipping that stupid coin of his around all over the place, he wanted to be a magician so badly, didn't he?"

Harry jumped up from the chair and fell to his knees at his father's side. "And you remember all that, Dad?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion.

"Of course I remember it. Why wouldn't I?" Roy said, trying to stifle a laugh. "Thanks for bringing my groceries over, by the way. I don't know what I'd do without you. We raised you right, and now you're taking care of your father the way a child should."

Looking down at the bottle in his hands, Harry's eyes read the directions. Good once for twenty-four hours. Changes not permanent. No refills. "I love you, Dad," Harry said. "I'm sorry for being such an unbelievable jerk to you. I guess I just can't stand losing you."

"I love you, too, Harry. Always will," Roy said. "It's all right. People get angry at things they don't understand. You'll always be my son, Harry, even if I do forget you tomorrow."

"Can I play with you?" Harry asked, tears rolling down his face.

"I'd love that," Roy said, smiling warmly at his son.