Tom tried to fold his napkin into a swan. Its wings kept wilting. The regal neck collapsed like a noodle. Tom kept at it. We didn’t talk about what we weren’t doing.

Our window faced a dingy Laundromat and a gift shop called Charming Isn’t It. One of us would make a remark. Tom made a remark: “That store should pay for some punctuation.”

“Aren’t you charming,” I said. “Question mark.”

Dusk came late. The wind was dusty and hard against our eyes. We waited for sunset before we drove to her trailer park, where the streets’ names suggested orchards: Peach, Pear, Fig. The driveways were full of cars that had been junked for parts.

Apple Lane was the farthest back, right up against the desert. Matilda’s trailer was more elaborate than most. She’d added a little porch with a barbecue and a dirty white cooler. We paused outside her door. Tom gave me a look as if to say, Well, it’s what we came for, and I knocked.

We heard a woman’s voice—hoarse from sickness or yelling—coming from inside: “I’m not coming out again! I won’t!”

“We’re not…” I called back, leaning closer. “We haven’t been here before.”

The woman who answered looked like a bloated version of our mother. That was the first thing I thought: Somebody has swollen our mother, as if the parts of her face had been soaked in water for a long time. Her hair was pulled into a long braid, dusty brown threaded with silver, and her skin was specked with large pores. She had a belly hanging over the waist of her jeans. She wore a pink shirt that wasn’t long enough. She looked like someone from a television show about the American poor, about white trash. The moment I thought the words, I shook my head—physically shook my head—to get rid of them again.

“Yeah?” she said. “Can I help you?” Her words were slurred, her voice smoke-wearied.

“Don’t close the door,” I said. “We’re family.”

“Whose family? What do you want?”

I smelled something terrible. At first I’d thought it was from the breeze, maybe garbage, but now I realized it was coming from inside. I realized it was coming from her body—not her breath but her body. It was liquor. Her eyes were glassy, and she tripped as she leaned away from the door. I stepped forward and took her elbow.

Tom gave me a look like: What are you doing? I widened my eyes back, daring him to speak. “Think about this,” he hissed.