Harold, Walter, and Frank sat together while the doctor asked a simple question: “What’s three times three?” Harold confidently answered, “274.” Walter considered it carefully before declaring, “Tuesday.” Then Frank said, “Nine.” Relieved, the doctor asked how he had worked it out. “Easy,” Frank replied. “I subtracted 274 from Tuesday.” The doctor stopped, then laughed—and the three friends joined him. For a moment, the room felt less like a place where something frightening might be confirmed.
Nothing about that laughter erased their worries. There would still be misplaced belongings, elusive names, and conversations that needed patient repeating. But now they had a ridiculous answer to carry home, something to bring up when another ordinary lapse made the day feel heavy. They could laugh without pretending everything was fine. And when remembering became difficult, they could still offer one another what they had offered in that office: company, patience, and room for an unexpected joke.