In 2018, 17-year-old Hemesh spent a life-changing summer with his grandmother Anne, who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Witnessing the impact of the disease firsthand, Hemesh was awakened to the seriousness of the situation.

One night, Hemesh walked into the kitchen only to discover that his grandmother had left the gas stove (炉) on after making tea. Shocked by the dangerous consequences Alzheimer’s disease could bring about, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if he hadn’t been there.

Hemesh’s worries increased as he observed his grandmother’s behavior. She would wake up in the early hours of the morning, believing she was on a train, and wander outside aimlessly. This wandering tendency could potentially lead her to get lost or put herself in risky situations.

Determined to make a difference, Hemesh engaged himself in extensive research about Alzheimer’s disease and its symptomatic (症状的) progression. Through his studies, he discovered that wandering was a common problem among dementia patients, especially those with Alzheimer’s disease.

Inspired by his newfound knowledge and fueled by his desire to help, Hemesh told his family, “I can’t just stand by and watch this happen. I need to do something to keep Grandma safe. I think I have an idea that might help not just her, but others in similar situations.”

With firm determination, he developed an inventive answer to the wandering dilemma, a device he called the Guardian Companion. It was a wearable device, similar to a smartwatch, specifically designed for Alzheimer’s patients. It integrated advanced GPS technology and a panic button to assist those who tended to wander, ensuring their safety and well-being. After the device got its official approval, Hemesh happily went to try it on for his grandmother.

As Anne put on the Guardian Companion, Hemesh explained how it worked.

In the next few weeks, the device made a difference to Anne and her family.

2 . I didn’t quite know what I was looking for when I flew to Mongolia for a term abroad. I just needed something different, far from the late-night libraries of my college town. Most different, I hoped, would be my rural homestay: two weeks in central Mongolia with a family of nomadic(游牧的) herders.

I was studying Mongolian at the time, but still, there was so much I couldn’t say or understand. As we walked in the snow behind the goats, my host mom would ask me if I was cold, then giggle (咯咯地笑) and copy a big shiver to make sure I understood. In the evenings, she showed me how to make dumplings with her fingers. My host siblings would talk with me, speaking too fast for me to understand, as we explored the rocks around our tent; I’d listen and nod.

This verbal(言语的) barrier was strangely freeing. In the crowded dining hall at home, meeting new people made me anxious. I’d stay quiet, measuring out my words, struggling for something to say that wouldn’t expose me as unfunny or boring. In Mongolia, I couldn’t perfect my words. I could only smile, and try out one of the phrases I’d mastered: “May I help?” “Where is the dog?” “Are you tired?” My host family laughed at my pronunciation, at the way I threw up my hands and eyebrows in a frequent gesture of confusion. But in their laughter, I felt safe, unembarrassed.

With my Mongolian family on the grassland, I found a feeling of ease I’d never felt before. We were so different, they and I, and not just in language. Their skin was hardened and darkened by sun; I’d been hidden under hats and sunscreen since birth. My host siblings(兄弟姐妹) grew up drawing water from frozen streams and jogging behind herds of sheep; I spent summers at tennis camp.

For me, these gaps made all the difference. Without shared social measures, I wasted no time wondering how I was measuring up. Only real things—kindness, helpfulness—mattered.