More like a distressed helicopter than a 68-year-old man, his arms flailing, Ed stumbled into the kitchen, knocking aside the bottle of artificial creamer and threatening the drip coffee maker on the linoleum counter.

“Ed, how many times do I have to tell you to put in your eye drops before you come in here?”

Edna held her coffee cup close to her terrycloth bathrobe for its protection. It was the start of another morning in their kitchen.

“What?”

“ED, I SAID, YOUR EYE DROPS — PUT IN YOUR DROPS BEFORE COMING IN HERE.”

She needed the coffee to soothe her throat whenever she reached high decibel levels. Should she make Ed an egg now or let him scramble his own?

“Huh? Where are you? Are you here, Edna?”

“AND, ED—”

He was in no condition to be near a stove.

He turned his head in the direction of what sounded like, well, a sound; a kind of foghorn in the fog, something like Edna.

“ED, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO PUT IN YOUR DAMNED EAR DROPS, AS WELL AS YOUR EYE DROPS.”

And if there were drops for memory, she would’ve shouted for him to shove them in his damned ears as well.