The boy and his grandfather bring up the rear. Their pace similarly slow, this suits them just fine. The rest of the family has already disappeared down the trail, which dog-legs right, hugging a rock outcropping ahead. The boy stops to pick up a series of invertebrates, upholding each in his smooth palm for his grandfather’s inspection. Delight makes the old man’s face wrinkle up like a softened potato. This same delight masks embarrassment, for he cannot recall the boy’s name. In fact, back in the parking lot, he hadn’t recognized the boy at all. He knew he was supposed to, though, and acted the part. This was the breakdown of tired neurons that had flickered out in recent years, rather like a power outage working its way through the mind, whole neighborhoods never to light up again. But then—did a few others also blink on? Today, the old man remembers that he does the New York Times crossword now, abstains from alcohol now, and goes on long walks like this one. He does not recollect why he’s made these changes, but senses that it gladdens his family. No, he can’t remember this particular boy’s name, but as his grandson kicks up fallen leaves and whoops and hurdles over protruding roots—he admires the boy. For his boundless energy. His enthusiasm for living. He shares neither of these, nor does he envy them. These are admirable qualities in the young, he thinks, watching the boy pick up stick after stick, weighing them, then wielding each as a sword, now as a walking stick. Here you go, Grampa, says the boy, proffering a long, sturdy section of tree branch, stripped of bark and as thick as a chair leg. The old man smiles, accepts the gift, and the two amble on toward the bend where they’d last seen their family. Upon rounding the rocks, they spy no one—only picturesque trail: the creek on their left, a canopy of leaves filtering the light overhead, stern bluffs on the right. The boy takes no notice, seemingly content with the situation. The old man has hiked this trail—Shades State Park #4—maybe thirty times in his life. He remembers none of it. He has also forgotten why he keeps a ballpoint pen in his plaid shirt pocket, though it imparts a certain comfort as he absently pats it now. Grampa, look! The boy shivers with excitement at the head of a small offshoot to the left, maybe a deer track. It leads down to the creek. The old man nods, and soon the trace opens into a pebbled clearing the breadth of a small house. Carefully, the old man bends down and picks up several flat, smooth stones. He explains to the boy how to skip them across the water. Keep your body low, wrap your index finger around the edge and spin it as you release. The old man throws them sidearm with a fraction of the necessary force. They sink to the bottom one by one. The boy emulates the motions of the old man. His rocks, too, are swallowed by the creek. I guess we’d better stick to baseball, eh? The boy smiles and shrugs as they retrace their tracks back up to the main trail. This was easier when I was younger, thinks the old man. They walk a little further until they reach a junction in the path, marked by a weathered brown signpost with yellow numbers. #4 veers off to the right. #5 continues ahead where, in the distance, faint voices can be heard calling the two by name. The old man does not hear. The boy chooses not to, and suggests the path to the right. Sure, why not says the old man. A hundred paces later, the trail itself becomes less recognizable as such, the path looking more and more like a dry creek bed. The two talk about the boy – his favorite superheroes, what he likes to play at recess. Another two hundred paces and the creek bed trickles to life. Their shoes take on the rich black loam of the path, and their socks are soaked through. Sandstone walls now surround them on both sides, a small gorge. Then come the wooden ladders. The boy clambers up the first slick ladder with ease. The old man considers this, and then – imagining himself to be the same age—he, too, scrabbles up the ladder. Here, it was much easier being six than seventy-six. That is not true of all places and times, thinks the old man. The path continues, darkening as it weaves back toward the lush heart of the forest. They encounter another ladder—this one twice as long. Again, the boy does not hesitate and begins his ascent. The old man once more chooses to be six, and begins mental preparations for the climb. These thoughts are interrupted by a sharp, short yell. The old man looks up to see his grandson plummeting through the air in front of him. Time slows. The walking stick clatters to the ground. Now the old man’s mind lights up in new places—he’s chosen to be twenty-six, strong and in his prime, enabling him to catch his grandson just before he is dashed on the solid rock bed beneath their feet. Bewildered, the boy looks up into the aged face of his grandfather, who winks at him before setting him down on his feet. The boy gets as far as the word How, but no further. Another voice has barreled into the ravine. It is the boy’s father, the old man’s son, red-faced and scowling. Dad, where were you? Dad we were worried about you. Dad you can’t just wander off with my son like that. But the old man can only hear the first word of each sentence. He smiles as another light comes on—either his son or his grandson is named Peter.