I step over for my turn. Mom’s not sweaty, so someone dropped her off at our house. She’s only got a tiny purse, so she’s not staying overnight. Her arms around me are too skinny, and the stomach that presses into mine is squishy and swollen. Up close, her skin and eyes are tinged yellow.

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She is supposed to be better, not worse, after being sober for four months, two in jail and two in rehab. I breathe in the familiar mixture of woodsy perfume and cigarettes and—I sniff more deeply—last night’s booze coming out of her pores. My questions dry up. I hold her tight for a minute so I can settle my face.