I hate how she says the word buddies, the way she separates the two syllables. Sully and I met a year ago through work. I guess you could say that we connected. I meet him for coffee at the Oven a couple of times a week. We’re friends, not buddies. We’re just friends.

“I don’t see him that much.” I tug at the seat belt cutting into my neck.

Minerva’s eyebrows shift up for a second, but she doesn’t say a word. I want to push her face with the full force of my hand.

A minute or two later, she says, “He’s single, right?”

What does it matter to her? “Do you want me to get you his number?” I ask in a monotone.

“Get me his number?” She bats at her bangs, fluffs and repositions them in the rearview mirror. “You mean give me his number. Because you have it already. And you text him all the time.”

I shift in my seat. “I have a boyfriend, you know. Remember? The guy I live with?”

“Exactly! So share the wealth, sister.” She smiles at me, then moves her eyes back to the road after swerving a little. The house is up ahead. She slows down, pulls into the driveway, and jams the car into park. When we get out, we have to maneuver our way through clusters of shiny green goose shit that lead up a dirt track to the Floyd place. There’s a fence and gate about three hundred feet from the house.

“Mr. and Mrs. Floyd were a gong show when I knew them,” she says, turning. “But just so you know, they’re the good gong show, not the bad one. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” How the hell can Minerva think drug addicts make good parents? We reach the gate, which has a sign on the front: Big Dog Bites.

“That sign’s been there since I was in Addictions. There was never a dog.” She pulls at the gate, creating enough of a gap to squeeze through. A long stripe of mildew transfers to the front of her sweater. We walk up the potholed driveway together, past a bucket on its side and a couple of mismatched flip-flops.

“Oh, the house looks better,” she says.

The home itself is squat and peeling, the deck ragged with rusted nails. On the porch outside the door is a cat litter tray full of crooked cigarette stubs. Next to that, a Hot Wheels car, blue, abandoned. If this is “better,” then what on earth was the place like before?

She pauses on the top step of the deck. “Let’s remember: even if Buster was left alone for a minute or two, when you’re a mother, shit happens. You might not know that, but mothers do. Those of us with kids have all been there.”