Suddenly, I feel like one of those little kids, and all I want to do is go home. We both look at Grimshaw. She’s holding the bottle at the end of her arm and following it around in small circles.

“How much has she had to drink, anyway?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not her babysitter.” He takes another swig of beer. “And neither are you.”

The song stops, and I wait for her to get down. Mike and I stand there together and watch her twirling around on the plank in silence, smiling to herself while all these guys watch her from the shadows. But no, another song starts, and she moves to that. She could dance to anything, really.

“Somebody should stop her,” I say. “It’s not safe, what she’s doing.”

He takes a swig of his beer. “Life’s not safe. You better get used to it, little girl. Or stay home.” He leans in closer to me, without taking his eyes off Grimshaw. “You think you could do that?” he asks me softly. He doesn’t look at me, just gestures with his chin toward Grimshaw.

“Do what?” I whisper. For some reason, my voice doesn’t seem to work. I clear my throat. “Do what?” I ask again, louder.

I hear a low chuckle. “You know what I mean,” he says. “Smart girl like you. I think you could,” he says, still without taking his eyes off her. “I think you got it in you. You’re still just a little …” Here he leans close to my ear. “Scared …” He breathes on my neck. “We’re all just the same, underneath it all, we’re just animals, you and me.”

He clearly isn’t going to help us, so I don’t want to waste any more time on him, but there’s something about the way he stares at you that you can’t look away from.

Then he keeps going. “You and your mom,” he says. “I know Scot. Put it this way—she ain’t Mrs. Pentz because of their intellectual discussions.” He laughs, like he’s just told a joke. Then he winks at me.

Somebody throws something—a chunk of wood or a heavy rock—in the fire. I turn to look. A column of sparks swirls up around Grimshaw, who seems to enjoy it. Like she’s been waiting for that cue, she holds the bottle over her head and twirls around. It’s gotten light enough that I can see Ruby’s pickup truck parked at a little distance. Why doesn’t her own brother know what’s going on? Ruby will do something about this if Mike won’t. I run to the truck, and there is Ruby, asleep behind the steering wheel. I slug him in the arm as hard as I can, so he stirs, barely opens his eyes, sees me, and shuts them again.