Prep work. Always prep work. Whenever his memories caught up to him, he'd take to the kitchen and dice a whole bushel of onions for no good reason.

"Baldroy?" came a timid voice behind him. "You okay? I thought I heard you—"

"I'm good and fine, Mey-Rin. It's the juices gettin' to me."

A hand touched his shoulder, gently. "I clean the china on the top shelf on my own sometimes … and it makes dust fall into my eyes—yes it does."

The knife continued to slice through the bulb. Even when he felt her leave, it never broke cadence.