“Yeah,” Cindy says. “Cindy,” she points at herself, and “Mar—”

“Mary,” I finish for her.

“Like the virgin?”

“No,” I say, “like Mary Tyler Moore?”

He frowns at me and turns back to Cindy. It doesn’t escape my attention that he hasn’t told us his name.

“Where’re you from?” He’s shoulder to shoulder with her and leans down to yell in her ear.

“What?” she shouts back.

“I said, where—are—you—from?”

“Ohhh,” Cindy says, “here, I’m from Athens. I went to Oconee.”

“No,” he says, gesturing with his cup in a circle. “I mean, where are you from—originally?”

It takes a moment for the question and its meaning to dawn on Cindy, and by that point another guy has joined. “Ice luge in Jack’s room,” he yells, pulling our new friend toward the exit.

“Sweet.” He turns back to Cindy. “Want to join? It makes your mouth go all numb.” He licks his lips.

Cindy blinks at him.

“I’ve never been with an Asian,” he shouts as the other brother drags him away.

Cindy’s smile falters, and she stares into her drink, hunching her shoulders like she wants to disappear.

“What the fuck?” I turn.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cindy slurs. “I’ve heard worse. Once”—she leans in, bumping my cheek, and I can taste the alcohol on her breath—“a guy told me I looked like his maid. What kind of”—she murmurs—“fudged-up shit is that? I think he was hitting on me, too. I mean…” But she stares at a group of guys posing for a photo on the back of a blow-up crocodile and doesn’t finish her sentence.

Michael’s on the move. He says something, and the brothers laugh. Then he seems to pick a guy out of the crowd at random and the others grab him by the shoulders. The adrenaline surges down my fingertips. Something’s happening. And I don’t know if it’s the flashing lights or the hunch punch or the music pumping so loud I can feel it in my skull, elevating the feeling of recklessness, or if it’s just me slowly starting to return to normal. But that invincible, I-can-do-anything, impulsive, stand-on-my-handlebars, jump-off-the-swing-set, live-without-fear kind of feeling I’ve been missing since the fire is coursing through my body, urging me to follow.

“Stay here,” I yell to Cindy. “I’ll be right back.”

I walk through the house, touching armoires and trophy cases, admiring a boat in a large glass bottle on a high shelf. All the while holding Michael’s back in the corner of my eye. I kick a beer can and have a vision of the pledges on their hands and knees tomorrow with rubber gloves and soapy water. The same skills you need to cover up a crime scene.