Since it's Tuesday, they position Doris under the umbrella. She looks around. The sun's canary yellow, the sky's blue jay blue, the clouds marshmallow white. Sometimes there are children building castles in the sand.
  Up close, a sign says Nathan's. In the distance, a Ferris wheel sits. Hot dog? Anybody wanna hot dog? When she tilts her head toward the ceiling, she hears a sea gull caw.
  They've placed her in a shiny metal chair. The chair folds and unfolds, folds and unfolds when she moves up and down. It's like waves, the unfolding, the ebb and flow, the rise and fall. Up down. Up down.
  But suddenly the magic's broken. There's a voice. And the voice, when it comes, is harsh and startling. Like a crack in the pavement. Like a rip in a perfectly good seam.
  "You gonna upend that thing, Doris! For the love of Christ, take your butt and sit!"
  Folds and unfolds. Folds and unfolds.
  "You gonna fall out of that chair again, Doris. Stop getting out of that chair!"
  Hot dog? Anybody wanna a hot dog?
  The voices belong to strangers, strangers in uniforms with clipboards in their hands. Anybody wanna hot dog! Sit down, Doris! Their shoes are white and thick-soled. She listens as they squeak.

***

The social worker's layered in Lycra. She points with lacquered nails. "You see it's kinder this way. Dementia does funny things. They forget they're living in a facility. They forget Trump's President. They forget they're a hundred years old."
It's the intern's first day. She glances at her watch. If she clocks in 1,500 hours, if she shadows this woman from dawn to dusk, she'll get her degree. She follows the swoop of the nails.
"So we recreate Coney Island. And we recreate their subway ride to work. The smells. The tastes. It's all here. They're living in yesterday."
Each diorama's more pathetic than the next. A mural of a park, a beach, a begonia-lined street. Eli the janitor's hawking the hot dogs. The biggest attraction—the subway car—sits precariously perched on four cement blocks.
"But what about their loved ones?" says the intern. "Their husbands and their children. The ones who visit. The ones who live in today."
The social worker covers a yawn. "Sure there's a few that toggle back and forth. But there's no remote control, sweetie. There's no grand celestial loop. Most of these people are stuck. Perennially, perpetually stuck. They've rewound the tape, sweetie. It's Lawrence Welk and Topo Gigio. Bosco and Mallomars."

  ***

  The head salesman, Frank Nadowski, gives the weekly tour. "This is the mail room," he says. "The library. The gym." Clutching their purses, a group of housewives look horrified. They're thinking once these people were young. They're thinking once these people had rosy cheeks and secrets in their eyes. Now look at them.
  Meanwhile the husbands are crunching numbers. They're each thinking, sure we bought long term insurance. But was it enough? These people look happy. Too happy. Like fucking Energizer Bunnies. Mom's got ten, twenty more years left on her odometer. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Then where will we be?

.   ***

  Shirley hides behind a plant. Even though it's summer, she wears a sweater. Under the sweater, the numbers lie tattooed on her arm.
  The uniforms with their quick wrists are always watching. In the cafeteria, she nibbles one two three bites of her tuna sandwich. Then she slips the other half inside her sweater sleeve.
  Her sister Reba will be waiting. A sip of water. A mended shoe. A life can be saved one bite at a time.

  ***

  Wanna hot dog? Anybody wanna hot dog?

  ***

  Morris spits on his mottled hand then runs it over the pleats of his pants. As usual, he goes through his checklist. Briefcase. Check. Lunch bag. Check. Newspaper. Check. First, he takes the train to Grand Central Station. Then the #4 to Utica Avenue. When he looks out the window, a familiar scene passes by. Kids are playing stickball. The diner's selling coffee and a piece of apple pie. If he closes his eyes, he can feel it. The rumble of the wheels, the shift of the seat, the bounce of the brakes.
  Hot dog! Anybody wanna hot dog!

  ***

  If Shanice bathes the woman once a week, it's a minor miracle. Of course a tub would be easier. The woman wouldn't be terrified of a tub. The shower's a different story.
  Shanice waits until the water clouds the mirror. Then she starts her performance. It's like karaoke, she tells her husband. Like karaoke without the song.
  "Shirley, I'm breathing deep! I'm breathing great big breaths, Shirley! Nothing's happening, Shirley. God is good. Shanice good. Everything good.”
  The old woman pets her like a dog. Shvarts, she says. The pills slip into her mouth like holy wafers. Then she lies down, her tiny body swallowed by the bed.
  For a moment, Shanice watches the up down up down of her chest. Then she sneaks inside the closet. In one deft move, she takes the tuna sandwich out of the sweater sleeve. Then she stuffs in the package of crackers she bought from the vending machine. Her back's to the camera. You gotta be careful. Cameras. Sensors. Guards.
  Finally, when she's assured no one's looking, she reaches inside Shirley's purse. First a fiver for the crackers. Then an extra twenty for doing the Lord's work. By midnight her shift will be over. Then it's a quick bus ride to the Hard Rock Casino. Her hand's just itching for a keno card. Won't Melvin be surprised when she wins.

  ***

  "Of course a few are recalcitrant," says the social worker. She walks past the beach scene, the subway train, the movie marquee that screams Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. "So we scroll the channels. There's flower arranging, salsa dancing, the standard arts and crafts. But some people are just stuck on the static. Good memories or bad—it doesn't make a difference. It's like they're frozen midstep."

  ***

  Somewhere a piano's playing. For Shirley, the past and the present have no distinction. Time is like quicksand, and the further she sinks the harder it is to get out.
  Her sister Reba was a gymnast. Hands like birds. Skin like silk. A face like a Botticelli dream. Dance for us, the guards would shout. They'd strip off her clothes. Then they'd flick their whips until her legs moved and her heels bounced. What a dervish she was, spinning faster and faster.
  Then one day they took her inside their barracks for a full week. When she came back, she never danced again. If someone sang or hummed a tune, she'd just sit, staring into space, her toes tapping the floor. Now when Shirley hears music, it's like knives. She tries to leave, stumbling down the halls, groping at the handrail. But the uniforms pull her back.

  ***

  It's another Tuesday. Nadowski, the guide, paints on a grin. Only one person has showed up for the group tour. He smiles and points. "This is the hair salon. The physical therapy room, the fancy hot tub with a dozen jets. Three squares a day and free cable to boot!" The grand finale, as always, is the coffee shop.
  "You like decaf? We've got decaf. All the free decaf you can drink."
  Hair sprayed hair. Ironed cheeks. Matching lips and nails. Lillian Leftkowitz eyes the rugelach, scans the muffins sitting on the shelf. Then she runs her fingers over her culottes. First, she bought the culottes and the Lacoste shirts. Now all she has to do is take the golf lessons.
  What a fricking nightmare. Ever since Harvey retired their lives have been ruined. Each night he sits at the table and waits for his supper. He runs his fingers over windowsills checking for dust. He's alphabetized the pantry.
  "So whatdya think? says the tour guide.
  What does she think? She's thinking she needs to retire from retirement. She's thinking about the complementary laundry. About the cafeteria the size of an airplane hangar. About the entertainment left and right. What if this is as good as it as it gets? Life could be a whole lot worse.

  ***

  Hot dogs! Wanna hot dog!
  Here's looking at you, kid.
  Another sandwich, another sleeve.

Marlene Olin was born in Brooklyn, raised in Miami, and educated at the University of Michigan. She is the winner of the 2015 Rick DeMarinis Short Fiction Award, the 2018 So To Speak Fiction Prize, and a nominee for both the Pushcart and the Best of the Net prizes. Her short stories have been featured or are forthcoming in publications such as The Massachusetts Review, Upstreet Magazine, Arts and Letters, Eclectica, and The American Literary Review.