He leapt over the flattened carcass of a dead squirrel and, as if on autopilot, his body led the way.

The hospital detour was brief and Max sprinted home to overcompensate, stagnant humidity filling his lungs, not a hint of a breeze. He reached the front steps and flung open the door. Instantly the smell of bacon coated his tongue.

Breakfast for dinner?

“Ma, you up?” Max sniffed. It was smoky.

“No, I’m cooking!”

That was Chloe.

“What?” Max yelped, sprinting through the house and rattling the good dishes in the china cabinet.

He entered the kitchen and saw his sister at the stove, standing on top of a plastic stool with all four burners blasting, only two of them covered with pans, and blue flames so high they nearly kissed her elbows.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, dropping the peanut butter as he dove for the gas knobs with such force, he knocked his sister off her stool.

Chloe landed on the linoleum with a thump. “Stop it!” Her voice was piercing. “Mom said I could!”

“Where is she?” He switched off the flames, cringing at the pan of burned, unseparated bacon slices. Another nonstick skillet held the charred remnants of what used to be pancakes. Chloe didn’t know how to make batter. His mother had to have been involved in this.

“Mom woke up! She said I could!” Tears sprang to Chloe’s eyes, her lower lip wobbly, and Max crouched by her side.

It didn’t take much to make his sister cry, but still, he shouldn’t have pushed her.

“You okay?” He helped her up.

She could have burned down the house, and he’d only left her with their mother for a short time.

Max glanced around the room. A gallon of milk was warming on the counter, bowls of gooey slop filled the sink, the faucet dripped a trickling stream of water as sticky serving spoons covered the Formica counter. Swiftly, he shifted into old habits, flinging open cabinet doors and digging for an open bottle. He couldn’t go through this again. If his grandparents found out…No. He shook his head, refusing to accept that his mother would bring alcohol into this home. But then, why would she leave Chloe standing near an open flame?

The deck groaned, and Max shifted toward the storm door. Footsteps creaked on the wooden boards, the sound distinct, like the swirl of his mom’s teaspoon in a mug or her cough echoing at night. It was her.

Sure enough, Mom appeared on the deck outside in a white nightgown that was almost see-through. Ugh. Max cringed.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, a breeze brushing through the screen carrying the sickly sweet scent of cheap perfume or maybe day-old flowers. “Chloe was in here, alone, playing on the stove.”

Mom’s mouth lifted in an unnerving grin, cheek cocked to the side. Max knew what she looked like drunk. Staggering, crying, and puking were involved. But his mom stood steady, and her eyes weren’t glassy. Instead, her gaze was stretched wide and was oddly bewitching.