While she worked out her frustration, I looked around the room to see how the woman I’d come to regard as my grandmother was getting along. The ceiling was festooned with the usual collection of herbs, hung to dry from a series of screw-in hooks. Jesus in his crown of thorns stared mournfully down from a holographic portrait above the doorway; his slightly bulging eyes seemed to be following Mama G’s progress around the kitchen. A chrome-legged table was covered with a layer of newspapers that protected it from the oily collection of motorcycle parts that Rafael had been working on. Beside them sat an ashtray filled with stubbed-out cigarettes. But the dishes had been done and none of the stove elements were on—Mama G’s short-term memory seemed to be holding, even though her long-term retention was glitched.