“I’m going to work in here for a while.” Lucy’s voice follows me out into the hot darkness where the greedy night crouches, waiting for me like some insatiable entity cloaked in suffocating black.

THE HUMMING VIBRATION OF the truck’s generator, the sounds of traffic begin to recede into the inky distance behind me.

As I head back to a clearing I can’t see it anymore, just a dark void because of the black tent up ahead, acres away, I’m haunted by what I just heard. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about what happened ten months ago when Dorothy gave Bryce and Ethan a very expensive bottle of tequila.

I remember thinking it odd that she was suddenly extravagant with people she’d never shown any interest in, although typically my sister is quite the hit with gay men. She adores South Beach, and it adores her back. She finds it gratifying and entertaining to dress to kill, as she puts it, to hold court in gay bars, to march in gay pride parades or better yet ride on a float, preferably in a formfitting low-cut dress, showing off her eye-popping curves, waving to all her fans as if she’s Sofía Vergara, whom Dorothy idolizes.

Whatever Italian my sister learned as a child, she’s managed to forget so completely she can barely say ciao or order pasta, although she doesn’t bother with either. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way Dorothy decided she’s South American.

She’s fluent in Spanish and all things Latino. The Miami Sound Machine. The hip-hop scene. She loves Cuban and Mexican cuisine, and suddenly Bryce does too. I didn’t give her handmade aged tequila much importance until a few minutes ago.

I didn’t realize what it might signify and why would I? It’s not out of the ordinary for my sister to make grand gestures when the mood strikes. It’s not unusual for her generous acts to be at my expense. Not so coincidentally I was in Miami with Dorothy and my mother when Bryce and Ethan received the Gran Patrón, specifically the Burdeos, which of course is Spanish for “Bordeaux,” and that’s the type of barrels it’s aged in.

In other words, I heard all about it ad nauseam, and as I think back I recall assuming Dorothy’s motive was to outdo or annoy me, and so what? I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. But I find myself facing the ugly possibility that her Christmas splurge wasn’t random or whimsical.