Excerpt from The Things We Keep by Sally Hepworth, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Hey," he says. "How are you doing?"

"Fine." I address the dog since I can't seem to look anywhere else.

"Everyone being nice to you?"

"Yep."

It's a German Shepherd. Its teeth are yellow and shiny with saliva; its mouth is curved into that smile-snarl that dogs always wear to keep you on guard. Am I happy? Am I angry? Come a little closer and find out.

"Oh," Eric says. "Are you afraid of dogs?"

I try to put on a brave face, but I obviously fail, because Eric sends the dog out. On his way into my room he pauses at a watercolor of a leaf that Jack must have hung on my wall. It belonged to my mother.

"This is lovely," he says.

"Keep it," I say.

He frowns at me. "You know you don't have to just sit in your room all day. There's a bus that goes into town twice a day. Some folks like to go to a shopping center or to a movie."

I sit up. "I'm allowed to do that?"

"Sure. Trish, one of our staff, is escorting the bus group today."

I sink back into my bed.

"Or there are board games in the parlor," he says. "We try and encourage residents to congregate in there when they're home. We find that people feel isolated when they spend all their time cooped up in their rooms."

"I'm okay with being isolated."

Eric perches on the edge of my bed, a frown bobbing on his forehead. My heart sinks. It must be time for the pep talk. I actually feel bad for Eric. He doesn't want to give it any more than I want to hear it. Deep down he probably knows that if he were a resident here, he'd stay in his room, too. But that's not the dish they're feeding us.

"Fine," I say, cutting him off before he can start. (Mostly because I want him to get off my bed.) "The parlor? That's the place to be? I'll go there today. Promise."

Eric sighs. "You don't have to go to the parlor. That wasn't my point. My point is that I want you to be happy here."

"I know." Everyone wants me to be happy here. If I'm happy, they don't have to feel guilty.

Eric rests his hand dangerously close to my thigh. "Give us a chance, Anna. I won't pretend I know what it's like to be you. But I do know that your brother didn't put you in here to wither away and die in your room. There's still a lot of life to be lived, but you need to stay in the game." He winks. "Jack told me you were an adrenaline junkie. I have to admit, I was pretty excited when I heard that. The most adrenaline we get around here is on bingo night."

He grins and I think I might actually vomit. "You're right," I say. "You have no idea what it's like to be me."

* * *

They say when you lose some of your senses, others get heightened. I think it's true. There was a time when I had a razor tongue. If there was a joke at the offering, I was the first to snap it up (and then deliver it with more pizazz than anyone else). Now I'm not as quick as I used to be, but I'm more observant, especially when it comes to people's state of mind. So when a young woman with spiky blond hair bursts through my door, I know at a glance that she's not only lost, but that there's something on her mind.

"Oh, um," she says. "Which way is the visitors' bathroom?"

Obviously, I have no idea. When I was diagnosed, my neuropsychologist (Dr. Brain, I called him) explained that memories tended to evaporate in reverse order. This meant my oldest memories would be the ones to hang around the longest, and new information, visitor's bathrooms included, were quick to disappear into the black hole of no return in my brain.

"I'm sorry, I don't know," I tell the woman. Her face, I notice, is crumpled and red. Wet. "Are you okay?"

She sighs, and I half expect her to turn and leave—continue on her search for the visitors' bathroom. But she stays.

Excerpted from The Things We Keep by Sally Hepworth. Copyright © 2016 by Sally Hepworth. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.