I take Aunt Mae’s blankets and my flannel shirt and my second pair of jeans down to the clunky old washing machine at the bottom of the basement steps. We don’t have a dryer. Even if I hang everything up tonight, it won’t be dry by morning.

But we’ll make do.

When I climb back up the stairs, Aunt Mae is in the kitchen. The potpie is already baking in the oven. I can see the cake in its little plastic dome on the counter. As Aunt Mae brushes past me, getting plates, I smell nothing but talcum powder and shampoo.

By morning the sweet smells will probably be burned away in whiskey and sweat.

Aunt Mae knows the weight.

I help set out the dishes and fill empty jam jars with cool water. Aunt Mae hums something I don’t recognize. I’m not even sure it’s a song.

The egg timer by the stove has just pinged when there’s a tap at the front door. It’s so timid and small that I wonder if we were supposed to hear it. Aunt Mae is busy digging pot holders out of a drawer. I duck away.

By the time I swing the front door open, the man is halfway down the walk to his car.

He hears the hinges creak. Pauses to glance back.

It’s Martin from the Wheelhouse.

“Just hadn’t seen you in a few days.” He sounds almost sheepish. “Thought she might need that.” He points at the floor of the porch, near my feet. A brown paper parcel, the bag twisted tight around the glass neck of a whiskey bottle.

I pick it up. “Thank you.”

He nods. Glances past me at the pale blue house. Golden lights stream from the kitchen windows, reaching out into the twilight. “How’s she doing?”

“Really good,” I say. “It was a good day.”

“Good.” He’s still waiting. His hands are in his pockets. “That’s good.”

I take a step toward him, off the porch. “Do you want to come in? Have some dinner with us?” I gesture with the bottle. “Or just a drink?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I don’t touch that stuff anymore. Not since Mae saved me.”

He says it matter-of-factly. Like it’s something I already know. But then he notices the blank look on my face.

“She didn’t tell you about that?”

“No,” I say.

He nods, looking just past me. “Almost two years ago now. Late at night, roads still icy. I’d just gotten off a long shift at the ’House, and I’d had too much to drink. Along County N my car skidded off into the woods. Made it almost a hundred feet, I guess. Down a slope. Out of sight of the road. Hit a tree. Smashed me almost through the windshield.” He taps the side of his face, where the eye drags downward. “Cut my head. My neck. I probably would have bled out right there. But your aunt came along just in time.”