“I don’t know,” he said, but he didn’t move.

“He doesn’t want it,” Tom said, blowing a cloud of smoke. “It’s yours now. Keep it.” The smoke formed a bushy shape between them, and then drained upward into the sky, and was gone.

Inside, the stereo was silent. The house had a tired, hollowed-out feeling. The floor seemed slightly canted as Tom stalked the living room, straightening pillows, and it occurred to him that he had perhaps been somewhat compromised by alcohol.

After the living room he moved on to the bathroom to check on Javier. He stood at the door but no sounds came from the other side. “You okay?” he said. Probably Javier was passed out on the floor, he figured, or curled around the toilet, safely expelling the night’s poison from his body. He saw no reason to bother him just yet. Around the corner Conrad could be heard picking over the remains of the food. The clatter of a fork hitting the floor followed by a whispered curse. Then, after stumbling footsteps, the front door slammed and Conrad was gone.

Next Tom went downstairs, passing through the plush den— once the domain of his sons, the scene of many roughhousing tournaments and late-night TV sessions—until he arrived at the door to Billy’s room. Cautiously, he turned the knob and a blade of light widened, revealing the littered floor and the ceiling plastered in ancient skateboarding posters, and then Lana and Diego laying in the twin bed, wrapped in an NFL sheet dotted with team logos. The sound of their mixed breathing was off-kilter: Lana’s placid, Diego’s rough and ragged with apnea. The room was muggy and close with the funk of sex.

Lana groaned and rolled over, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her eyes slivered open and she looked glassily at Tom. Her expression was calm, or perhaps simply so boggled by alcohol she couldn’t see straight. Her hair fell over her face, and she seemed unsure where she was.

Tom said nothing. He was already resigning himself to the idea of overnight guests. Whatever awkwardness they faced, they could face in the morning. He closed the door and went back upstairs, plotting to leave out pillows and blankets on the couch for Javier, although he would likely endure the whole night in the bathroom.

Tom padded to the dining room and poured himself a final Scotch and soda and sat down near the window. Outside, a single pinprick of starlight was visible above the spire of the temple. Two clouds drenched in moonlight lurked near the horizon.

He left the lights off and surveyed the night’s damage. The last strands of papaya were drying out. The scattered wine glasses caught bits of moonlight. The clues were tell-tale. A forensic detective would have to conclude that a pretty good party had occurred.