“Some drinks he have,” she said, without removing her hand.

Her dad looked frightened and confused. Annie saw now that a couple of the banisters were broken and realized that her parents were afraid to go upstairs.

“Is Frankie all right?”

“He has lots of drinks.” With her free hand, her mom drew together the collar of her robe, clutching it tightly at her neck. “We try to help him up but…he’s not himself.”

“He pushed your mama,” her dad whispered.

“He didn’t mean to.”

“In the face. What you say he didn’t mean? In the face!” Her dad demonstrated, shoving out the palm of his own hand. In that same motion, he pulled her mom’s hand away from her mouth to reveal a slightly swollen cut on her lip. Then he pointed at the broken banisters. “Look. He kicked them in. Kicked them.” He made kicking motions. “È pazzo.”

Annie climbed the stairs. At the top, she glanced back down. Her mom and dad were staring up at her helplessly. He wasn’t in his own room, so she went to hers, where she found him. He had opened the cedar chest under her window and was sitting on the floor surrounded by all her old things: her farmyard set; her two favorite books, The King of the Golden River and Hans Brinker: or, The Silver Skates; and, in his lap, the chewed-up patchwork quilt that had been her safety blanket.

“Frankie. What are you doing?”

Glancing back at her, he tried to get up and almost fell. His face looked as if it were about to slide right off his head, all the muscles deadened and drooping, his eyes bloodshot.

She went to him, holding him steady. “I’m going to take you to bed, Frankie.” Speaking into his face as if it were the entrance of a deep well into which her brother had fallen, Annie felt as if her heart had dissolved and surfaced in her skin, setting up a faint enveloping throb.

Her dad was at the door, peering in, horrified. She made a gesture for him to go away, but he remained.

Luckily Frank didn’t notice. It seemed all he could do to remain conscious. Trying to support her brother as best she could, she led him, one step at a time, to the door. Almost there, he suddenly pulled away, throwing his hands against the top of her dresser to brace himself in an unsteady spread eagle. He seemed in agony, unable to catch his breath.

“Frankie,” she said gently. She took hold of his waist but quickly stepped back to avoid a rill of urine, which ran across the sloping floor. She saw the stain spreading down his pant leg. Her dad let out a soft, frightened curse as Frank sank to his knees and began to heave.