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Cater

Cater sticks a Q-Tip in too far and some of her brains fall out. One piece goes under the couch with the Fritos. The cat eats another and learns to program the VCR. A third goes into the vacuum cleaner, and takes with it her daughter’s name.

They take her to the doctor after that one. “Plaques,” he says, and “probably,” “good” and “early” and “years left.” While they’re frowning Cater leans over from the papered table and borrows a few brains from the doctor.

“And it’s genetic,” says her wrung-out daughter, “Alzheimer’s?”

“Whose?” smiles the doctor, nodding along.

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