I take the glass out of her hand. “Have you heard from him lately?”

She gives a little headshake. “We will soon. We need to be patient. He’s got his own demons to fight.”

Aunt Mae can be patient if she wants to be. I’ve run low on patience, at least where my father is concerned. But there’s not much difference between being patient and expecting nothing.

I give her the pretty blue cup. Aunt Mae holds it in both palms, like she’s cradling an actual robin’s egg. She looks at me. Her cobwebby eyes try to focus. “Good night?”

I nod. “It was good.”

“Music as good as ever?”

“Better and better.”

She smiles. “And how was our boy?”

I smile back. Not answering.

“Good,” says Aunt Mae. She takes a small, slow sip of the coffee, as if it’s medicine.

“Would you like some toast?” I offer the plate.

“In a bit, perhaps. Thank you.”

I read the tremor in Aunt Mae’s hand as she sets the coffee cup aside. Not just a lack of alcohol in the blood. Something bigger.

“Were the dreams bad last night?”

Aunt Mae closes her eyes. Nods.

“Anything nearby?”

“No,” she breathes. “Too far. And too vague. The worst kind.”

I smooth the layers of blankets that weigh her down. “Want me to draw you a bath?”

“No. Thank you.” She smiles, eyes still closed. “You go on. Get on with your day.”

“I’ll go to town. Get the groceries.” I glance at the floor beneath the coffee table. Glass bottles are tumbled there like spent bullet shells. “Do you need another bottle?”

Aunt Mae nods. “See Martin. At the Wheelhouse.”

I take my piece of toast and the green cup back to the kitchen.

There are six bills in the old tin coffee can in the upper cupboard, floating on a silt of coins. I take a twenty and a handful of change. I open the other cupboard, the one with the jars and pouches and old tea boxes, and pull out a tall glass bottle, one with a metal screw cap, that held whiskey a long time ago. I fill it with water from the tap. I put the bottle in my canvas bag. Then I swallow my toast and coffee, pour the dregs into the sink, and let the rusty tap water carry them away.

Outside, the air is on the edge of cool. The trees sift the sun so that only the finest fragments tumble through. I walk around to the back of the house, keeping inside the circle of white stones.

There, beyond the edge of the overgrown backyard, just where the trees start to thicken again, the shed stands in a cluster of young pines. It sags heavily to one side. A few more years and it might tumble straight over, like someone who’s fallen asleep standing up.

I unlatch its front door.

No one comes here but me.

I haven’t cleaned up inside. I haven’t changed anything. I try not even to leave footprints. It needs to look untouched, if they come searching. When they come.