I am babbling, which I sometimes do when my mind races around like this. I detect a sour smell in the air, and I almost don’t want to hear what Kip might say to me.

“Dad’s resting,” he says.

“Oh? Would he mind if we woke him up?”

“Probably.”

“Where are your brother and sister?”

“I . . . they’re playing.”

“Can I go inside and find them?”

I don’t wait for Kip to give me permission. I proceed to the hallway and turn left into the living room, which is empty and disordered, sofa cushions piled on the floor, lamp turned over, large bottle of probably vodka lying empty on the scruffy rug.

I say something like oh, dear and duck back into the hallway. A giggle drifts past. I follow the noise and wrinkle my nose—the smell’s getting stronger, also sharper—until I reach the source, behind a door.

I open it.

It’s Digby’s office, or so I assume—a tiny, reeking room that looks as if it’s recently exploded. Books and papers everywhere, desk askew, chair upside down. On the floor lies Digby himself, facedown. I figure he isn’t dead, because Claire’s jumping up and down on a fallen cushion near his head—that’s the giggling—and Jack rolls with suppressed laughter on the floor next to his feet, and neither of them seems upset in the least. I look at Digby and at Claire and at Jack and back to Digby. Claire jumps off her cushion and squeals with some unfathomable childish delight.

“Daddy’s wet himself!”

MUCH AS I WANT to, I can’t just leave my brother-in-law lying on the floor in a pool of his own urine. I manage to wake him with some gentle slaps and a bit of water. I run him a bath and shut the bathroom door to let Darwin have his way with the man.

I can’t read the labels on the cleaning supplies. I fill a bowl with water and a bit of what seems to be soap powder and wash up the floor as best I can. Kip helps me. Of the three children, he’s the only one who grasps the seriousness of the situation. I suppose that’s as it should be. He’s eleven and a half and his blond hair is darkening to a shade somewhere between those of his two parents. He has a sober, scholarly handsomeness to him. I make sure that Jack and Claire are playing quietly in the children’s bedroom and bring Kip into the office with me.

“First of all, young man, I think you’ve done an excellent job looking after your brother and sister with your father unwell.”

“He wasn’t unwell. He was drunk.”

“Well, yes.”

“He used to get drunk all the time, back in England. Then he stopped when we came here.”

“So what set him off, do you think?”