TWO YEARS AGO, WHEN Willie and I spent Fourth of July weekend in Walkers Pasture, he and Cabot bonded over lots of crazy childish things—video games, cold spareribs smeared with grape jelly, the WeCrash Demolition Derby truck track—but, most passionately, they became best buds over (who would have guessed it?) miniature golf.

Not surprisingly, the two of them did not like the “course” in Wheeling. Not that I ever did a big survey, but all miniature golf courses look the same to me. Not to Cabot and Willie. No, their favorite place in the world was an hour-and-a-half ride away, the Hole in Fun, in Burgettstown, Pennsylvania.

How do my son and brother get to the Hole in Fun? Well, I’ve got to drive them while Mom stays home to watch Daddy. Fact is, Cabot lost his driver’s license about forty times for DUI. So if they’re going, I’m driving.

What about Cabot’s near-death experience less than twelve hours ago? Well, he still looks like a burlap bag full of loose bones. I take his blood pressure, and it’s a very low eighty over fifty-five. The man is still shaking. He’s refused anything to eat (except for half a jelly doughnut) since the emergency naloxone injection. But the most alarming thing is that Balboa Littlefield’s Mercedes is still parked across the street. Cabot has stood at the living room window and checked out the red car a few times, and I know my brother is just itching to pick up a few dozen Percocets or Vicodins.

“We should get heading to the golf place, Lucy,” Cabot says.

I offer him a deal. I tell him that unless I watch him consume one fried egg, one slice of buttered toast, and a cup of half tea, half milk, I won’t drive to Pennsylvania. I know he’ll do it for Willie.

Privately I tell Mom that Cabot should be in bed or in a hospital or in rehab.

Her answer is simple: “You’re absolutely right, honey, but the only place he wants to be is at a miniature golf place in Burgettstown, PA.”

Egg gets eaten. Toast gets eaten. Mom and I sit together at the tiny kitchen table. We’re alone for a few moments.

“You’ve been through so much, Mom. Daddy, Cabot. It never really stops, does it?” I say.

I’m not really expecting an answer, or at most, nothing more than a simple no or yes.