I head to the kitchen and find a glass in the cupboard, filling it with ice from the old white freezer and water from the sink. I take it to her room before asking, “Any Advil?”

“Motrin. Bathroom.” Her voice rasps. It hasn’t returned.

I immediately find it and remove two pills. Placing them in her hand, I finally ask, “Are you okay?”

She swallows the medicine with a large sip of water, wincing, and then rolls away from me. My cue to leave.

I hightail it back to my place. Shit’s been going south in my head for too long, but this is a new low. Dirt kicks up around the car when I pull up to my small home, but I don’t wait for it to settle before jumping out.

Within seconds, I’m rummaging through my own kitchen and pulling out a bottle of tequila, twisting the cap open. I need it to function.

“God is watching,” my father loved to remind us at our wooden dinner table. He’d built it himself. Chewing his collard greens closed-mouthed with buzzed hair and his back ramrod straight, he’d lecture.

I grew up well. Football captain. Great friends. Church every Sunday. Both my parents were hardworking and God-fearing. When kneeling for Holy Communion, I’d shut my eyes, just as I’d been taught, regardless of the fact that I was constantly restless from sitting too long. When I confessed to the priest, there was nothing I’d withhold.

I believed in God back then. I still want to, but how can I now amid the shit I’ve seen?

I take a few more gulps, aiming to drown myself in liquor and old-time memories …

Aaron beating me in a shoot-out—it was one time, damn it, but he never forgot. That time when Dad drove his truck into a ditch, and the whole football team came to help push it out. Or the time Mom baked that zucchini bread for our new neighbor, but Aaron and I found it sitting hot in the oven, just waiting to be eaten.

“She can make another one,” I said.

We used our hands like spoons, shoveling the warm bread into our mouths until there wasn’t even a crumb remaining. It was so damn good; we didn’t pause to get forks. Mom found us there with our hands in the oven, and boy, did she yell.

I take another swig, laughing. We were partners.

Aaron standing at the door next to my father, watching me as I readied myself to leave for boot camp. His blue eyes were full of hero worship for his older brother, who was willing to risk his life for God and country.

As he was three years younger than myself, life with Aaron was a continual test of strength and strategy. And, by that, I mean, we basically beat the living shit out of each other on a daily basis. Still, we were tight when it mattered.

The Twin Towers had fallen weeks prior, and we’d watched a documentary on television about the strength and pride of our Navy.