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“But you have something to add?” Dr. Ricci said. When she saw my dad’s grimace, she set her pen down. “Look, for lack of a better word, this sucks. But if I don’t know what’s going on, I can’t help you make treatment decisions.”

“A witness saw my dad drive off after hearing a loud crunch on Glanville Street by Lou Whittaker’s cornfield. There’s a deer crossing road sign that got bent over. The paint scrapings on Dad’s car match it.”

“You calling me a liar?” he snapped.

“No. I’m saying I don’t think you remember it happening. And don’t forget our deal. You know this is how it goes in here. No sugarcoating. No obfuscation. This is what I’m worried about.”

“How’s your appetite, Tom?”

“Never better.”

“I’m concerned you sometimes forget to eat,” I said.

Dad went cold and silent. But he didn’t argue. In some ways, his quiet acceptance felt worse.

“But work is going well,” I said. “We’re handling a pretty complicated client at the moment and I don’t think I could handle it without you, Dad.”

“That’s excellent,” Ricci said. “So we’re not dealing with any degradation in your analytical reasoning?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“I hate this,” Dad muttered.

“Me too,” I said, squeezing his hand.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “So let’s cut to it. Mercy’s right. We did agree we weren’t going to dance around things in here. That’s what you told me. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” he said, still not meeting either of our eyes.

“Here’s the good news. I think the donepezil is doing its job. That the episodes of disorientation have subsided is huge. Your weight is stable so we aren’t dealing with a nutrition problem. I love that you’re actively working on cases together. Keep at it.”

“But,” Dad muttered.

“But,” she repeated. “Here’s where I’m concerned. Your MoCA score this afternoon was a bit worse than the last time we administered it. You scored a 22 today. Last time you gave me a 25. Delayed recall was your weakness. Some visuospatial deficits with your drawing tasks. But understand that’s not a pass/fail. We’re looking at trends. We need to talk about your MRI. I’m comparing the one you took two weeks ago to the one you had done eighteen months ago. There are definite changes. I’m seeing progression. It’s mild, but there is some hippocampal atrophy.”

“English?” I said.

“Your brain is shrinking, Tom.”

Without missing a beat, Dad smiled. “Good thing it was bigger than yours to begin with.”

She laughed. “I don’t doubt that. I’m also seeing evidence of a couple of small chronic lacunar infarcts that weren’t there before. It means you may have had very tiny vascular injuries.”

“Strokes,” he said. “You’re saying I’ve had a stroke?”

“Not exactly. But sort of. Teeny tiny ones. It could have something to do with the symptoms you’re experiencing. Or maybe not at all.”

“So why am I even coming here? You can’t tell me anything.”

“I’m telling you we keep doing what we’re doing. And your daughter and I keep watching. How do you feel about taking a driving test?”

Dad dropped his fist to his chair arm with a thud. “There’s nothing wrong with my driving!”

“I’m not saying there is. Yet. But with the changes I’m seeing on your scan and your MoCA score today, coupled with the fact you might have had a fender bender you don’t remember? Yeah. Let’s see what’s what. Okay?”

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I can still fly a plane, for chrissake. I was flying jets before either of you were born. I don’t need a driving test. Just write me the damn prescription and we’ll be out of your hair.”

He got up and walked out. My chest went hollow as he slammed the door.