Devil's Plaything by Matt Richtel

her prime, sufficiently lucid. Brains don’t fail this precipitously.
    I situate Grandma on a chocolate-leather couch. As I do so, I explain she is agitated and acting frightened. Grandma interjects. “You’re the doctor who studies my head.”
    â€œThat’s an interesting way to put it.” He glances at me as if to say: See, she’s on the ball.
    He asks me to elaborate on what she’s been saying. “Has it been nonsensical rambling or is she repeating herself and focusing on a particular idea?”
    I explain that Grandma talked about a man in blue and the dentist. She’s been upset since we nearly got shot in the park.
    â€œPhysically, she’s fine,” I say.
    â€œStop,” he says, with some alarm.
    â€œPardon.”
    â€œShe was shot?”
    â€œAlmost.”
    â€œChrist,” he says, suddenly animated. “Are you serious?”
    â€œIt was probably some random attack. But I’d love to know what she remembers about it.”
    He pauses, apparently lost in thought. “It’s not every day that one of my patients gets shot at.”
    He stands.
    â€œCan you wait outside while I examine her?”
    â€œI’d rather stay.”
    â€œShe’s liable to look to you for comfort or approval. I need to get a clear sense of her mental state.”
    I hesitate, and then stand up. I put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be right outside, Grandma.”
    Dr. Laramer walks to his window, which is letting in gray light. He peers outside, closes the shade, then turns and walks back in our direction. He turns on a bright overhead light. I leave the pair of them alone.
    I stand in the hallway. My cell phone signal is poor, but I try to call my parents. No luck getting through.
    Then I hear a shout come from inside the office. More like an expression of shock, or surprise. It’s not coming from Grandma. But Pete.
    I open the door. Pete and Grandma sit on the couch. She’s withdrawn to the edge of it. He leans away from her with his palm pressed against his chin. A yellow Nerf ball sits between them.
    â€œWhat happened?” I ask, moving quickly to Grandma. I bring her close to me. She seems to relax.
    â€œShe punched me in the jaw,” he says.
    â€œWhat?”
    Grandma’s right hand is balled into a tight fist.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m sure she didn’t mean . . .”
    â€œI leaned in close to test her visual acuity and she let me have it,” he interrupts me. “Not bad strength. Terrific punch, actually. Stings like a bee.”
    â€œChop,” I say.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWas probably a chop, not a punch. She was a blue belt,” I say. “She studied years ago.”
    â€œShe’s definitely agitated,” he says. Then turns to her: “You often roundhouse the help?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Grandma says. “I’m only supposed to use my training for defense.”
    He shakes his head and, finally, laughs. “I’ve had agitated patients spit at me, and vomit. Once I was shoved by a bouncer. Never karate chopped.”
    â€œPete, what did you say to upset her?”
    He shrugs. “I asked her how she was feeling, the year, who is president, whether she is comfortable, the usual stuff.”
    â€œAre you friends with Adrianna?” Grandma asks him.
    He looks at me, raises his eyebrows. “Who is Adrianna?” he asks me.
    I shrug. “Grandma Lane, who is Adrianna?”
    She cocks her head to the side, momentarily frozen in thought, like an overly taxed computer processor. Before she can continue, Pete picks up the Nerf ball. He tosses it in a gentle arc just to the right of Grandma. She raises an arm and swats it to the ground.
    â€œInteresting,” he says.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I ask, just shy of irritated that he’s interrupted the conversational flow.
    â€œTesting her spontaneous physical reactions. As you can see,