“A person can’t do that,” Evona says, and lights a cigarette. “You want one?”

He shakes his head.

“I know. They’re terrible. I only allow myself one a month. But this, now—” she holds up a small glass and he can hear the tinkling of watery ice “—I do believe Jameson’s is good for the soul.”

“That I might need,” he says.

“Oh, let me get you a glass,” she shoots up and slides around the lattice divide, in and out of the house, and produces a glass identical to hers, full of ice cubes, all in less than thirty seconds. She shoves the glass into his hand, then splashes in whiskey; he catches sight of the green bottle in the moonlight. Then she is clicking her glass against his and downing a drink while her last word—“Sláinte”—still lingers on the air between them.

He takes a small sip so he can savor the whiskey on the roof of his mouth and let it soak into his tongue. Smoky and oaky and sharp and soft, all at the same time. He takes a bigger drink and then breathes out a hot breath of satisfaction. “I haven’t had a drink in years.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I never took to it.” He doesn’t want to tell her he has been a preacher all these years. No use in opening that door. People get nervous around preachers, even ex-ones (especially ex-ones, he imagines). They feel judged. No wonder.

“Does this help?” she says, and he looks down at her, not knowing exactly what she means. She is looking out at the courtyard, not at him.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Does my coming over here and distracting you and giving you a drink help? Does it help with what you were crying over?”

“I wasn’t really cr—”

“You were,” Evona says, and leans briefly against his leg. “It’s alright. Sometimes we laugh and sometimes we cry and as long as we’re alive, we can deal with everything else. You know?”

So she is drunk, he realizes. He’s surprised he hadn’t noticed the slur of her speech until just now. And why shouldn’t she be drunk if she wanted to be, at four o’clock in the morning? She isn’t hurting anyone. And she’s right, they are alive, and sometimes a person has to get numb and deny it all. And sometimes a person has to forget, and sometimes forgive.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when he doesn’t reply. “I’m a little drunk.”

“It’s alright.”

“I don’t do this often,” she says. “Turns out we both had a bad night on the same night. That’s all. I’ve had a real bad week. That’s why I’ve been so unfriendly. Sometimes I have bad nights and sometimes I have bad weeks.”

“It’s alright, really—”