[Booyakasha]

It’s past ten. Grandma calls, hysterical—the old fellow’s fallen again. Coats go on, lights go off, I lock the door. We zoom across town, half-listening to the morons on the radio. Dad is grim and silent at the wheel. We pull into their driveway—car doors slam, shoes tap on asphalt, then up the steps to the front door. We go in. Grandma flits around the living room in her robe, hovers over the old fellow, who waves to us feebly from where he lies next to the sofa. I take hold under his arms, Dad grabs his hands, and we li-i-i-ift him to his feet. Grandpa laughs and thanks us, pitches to the side, nearly tumbling over again before we steady him. He laughs again, sheepish.

I follow him up the stairs, step by painful step. He grips the banisters; I stand ready to catch him. It takes a while. At the top landing, he thanks me and laughs again, winking a watery eye, and shuffles off to bed. Back downstairs, Grandma asks me to take out the garbage.

We leave. The radio plays a brash, repulsive new song. Dad weeps quietly to himself. I pretend I don't see.

'Extremely short story' assignment, from my creative writing course at the tech, three years ago.