I have never been angry at my sister for the drinking, the drugs. I have felt scared and sad and sorry for her, but never furious. Until now.

How can she choose to drink instead of look for our parents? What kind of person does that?

I pull away from her. “I have been trying to call you since 8:17 last night.”

“That’s my fault,” Micah says. “My phone wasn’t on.”

I am just now realizing how often we all make excuses for Hannah. It is Micah’s fault because his phone wasn’t on, not her fault because she didn’t bring one in the first place.

It was Dad’s fault—according to him—that Hannah had a drug problem, because he worked such long hours. Or Mom’s theory: Pappoús was also tempted by the devil more than once. Like grandfather, like granddaughter. It’s in the blood. Their blood, not mine, since mine is different. Hannah’s addiction, the counselor said, was also, in part, attributed to me: Having a high-performing sibling can, she noted, trigger a user’s lack of self-esteem.

The literature on addiction says it’s no one’s fault, that you can’t blame yourself for a loved one’s substance abuse, but I don’t buy that theory. Every time a rocket goes down, there is an inquiry. Someone is always to blame.

Hannah’s lower lip trembles. “I’m here, okay? I’m sorry. I’ll start … doing whatever you think I should.”

“I’m not sure how much assistance you’ll be if you’re not sober,” I say.

“Dude, Mae. Lay off her—” Micah starts.

“Don’t.” I give him the look my father gives exceptionally obtuse graduate students, then turn back to Hannah. “Have you seen the videos online? Of the wave?”

She nods.

“And you thought the best way to help our parents survive that was to get drunk?”

Hannah steps back, as though I have hit her. And I want to. I have never wanted to slam the back of my hand against her cheek, but right now, that would feel really excellent.

“Hey.” I have never heard this edge in Micah’s voice. “She is not drunk. We had some drinks last night. Responsibly. Don’t make her feel worse than she already does. It’s not helping anyone.”

I cover my face with the palms of my hands because I am very, very tired. And perhaps I have made a tactical error. The psychologist would say this response of mine could result in Hannah falling into a shame spiral—and more nights of me looking for her on the boardwalk at three a.m. before Dad and Mom realize she’s not in bed.

“I’m sorry, Mae,” Nah says. “It was just one night. Just drinks. I’m here, okay? How can I help?”