I was thinking about a night a few years ago, early September, nearly blackout drunk and throwing empty glass bottles at the side of one of those buildings, one after another, until I heard a police siren and ran. I didn’t remember what I was angry about, I just remembered anger, uncontrollable and impossible to disobey. It was hard to imagine that was the same person.

“This is prime real estate,” Irvine mused. “I bet it isn’t even profitable anymore. The university is gonna buy this whole place up in five years and build something shiny.”

♒

It had been ninety degrees all week but it finally cooled off that night. I was often restless after I got home. I was rummaging around in my mom’s house for snacks past midnight and she came out into the living room. I froze.

“Kieran. Sorry, you didn’t wake me up, I have a horrible headache. Could you get some chamomile started for me?”

As the tea was steeping, she sat at the little breakfast table by the bay windows. She looked ghostly in her nightgown, her hair hanging in a stringy curtain around her face.

I hadn’t seen much of her that summer. We’d cross paths in the morning but only briefly, her eating breakfast while I was already halfway out the door in my work clothes. Like me, she was an insomniac, so we’d have the greater part of our conversations at night. During the day she was all business, but at night we remembered that we had things to say to each other.

“I drove past Grandma Betty’s today,” she said.

“Mm.”

“I can’t believe he’s really doing all that. The house he grew up in.”

She shook her head and looked down at the table, her hair covering her face. She massaged her temples.

“It’s coming along well,” I offered.

“Sure. I mean, all of his schemes always start out well. At least you’re not invested in his success. Is he paying you on time?”

“Yeah.”

I handed her the tea and sat across from her. She straightened her back and took a sip.

“And what’s next for you?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, I like having you here,” she said. “But you can’t stay forever.”

“I know.”

“You have a degree from a good school, you’re smart — I don’t know, Kieran. You can’t work for that man forever.”

She was using the tone of voice she had honed from decades of talking to brash young students. It served to place an impassible barrier between us. It was disconcerting how easily she switched into that voice. I wanted to remind her that I was her — daughter, whatever.

“I could,” I said.