“So, what do you think of Annie? You guys are about the same age, right?” Mrs. Keller asks. The three of them are drinking crisp white wine from long-stemmed glasses. They went out to dinner earlier, to an Italian restaurant one town over. Georgia and Mrs. Keller had stumbled through the front door, laughing uproariously at something Mr. Keller had said, flushed with glee. Mrs. Keller had made a beeline for her cigarettes and the wine fridge, popping open a new bottle before Mr. Keller had even closed the front door.

“She’s kind of dour, isn’t she? Something’s a little off with her. She’s too quiet for me.” Georgia slurs her words, and Annie hears the clink as she puts her glass back down on a round wrought iron table.

“She’s damn good with Suzy, though. I think you have to be a little weird to surround yourself with kids all day.” That’s Mr. Keller, voice clear, unburdened by alcohol.

“I guess shit’s a little different in the sticks, right? She’ll probably be pregnant and married by next year. We should enjoy her while she lasts,” Mrs. Keller says with a low chortle. She coughs heavily, a phlegmy, unpleasant sound that rises from deep within her lungs.

“That hair, though. I mean someone should tell her to get it cut. Is she Amish or something?” Georgia snickers.

“Hey!” Anneliese hears Mrs. Keller cry affectionately. “Put the cig back. I might be the cool aunt, but I still changed your diapers.” Georgia and Mrs. Keller erupt into another fit of giggles until there’s a loud crash. “Oh shit. Nicky, can you get the dustpan?” Annie hears the sigh and creak as Mr. Keller gets up. She tries scurrying out of the kitchen, but his long strides beat her to it. His face crinkles with surprise, then shame, as he realizes what she heard.

“Don’t mind them. They’re drunk. They can get nasty when they’re drunk.” He fidgets, waits for Annie to say something. But how could she respond? “They don’t mean it.” He weaves a hand through his thinning hair. “Something about Georgia brings out a cattiness in my wife. Makes her feel like she’s a teenager again.” He’s drunk, too, Annie realizes. Less so than his wife and niece, but he’s definitely not sober. His eyes are red-rimmed, his shirt wrinkled. A tiny wet spot glistens by the buckle of his pants.

“Sometimes...sometimes I worry she wants to be that age again, your age, so desperately that it’ll be her downfall,” he says softly, his eyes unfocused and misty. Annie doesn’t answer. Instead, she kneels down and procures the dustpan from under the sink, and hands it over to him silently. He raises his hand in a halfhearted wave before going out again to rein in those wild cats.