“Trevor,” I began.

Trevor lurched out of his chair, and that’s when I knew he had been waiting. He went straight to the cupboard, grabbed two tiny glasses — the juice glasses my mother had used to serve herself a shot of health-giving V8 juice every morning — and then turned and retrieved the bottle of Captain Morgan from the corner of the countertop. He sat down at the table again, placed one of the juice glasses in front of me, one near him, then twisted the cap on the rum. It broke open with a loud crack.

Trevor was as nervous as I was.

“Are we celebrating?” I said.

“I don’t know, Miss Karie,” said Trevor. “But whatever we’re doing, thought this might help smooth things along.”

He poured us both a shot. The sweet holiday fumes wafted up at me.

“This isn’t going to work for me,” I said. I got up and got the cola out of the fridge, along with some ice.

“I’m sorry,” said Trevor, flushing. “This is a problem I have, so I’ve been told. I presume.”

I plunked an ice cube into my juice glass of rum and tipped some cola on top of it — the cube exploded somewhere within its depths, jumping in the glass like a piece of popcorn, and Trevor and I jumped slightly too. Then I offered the cola to Trevor.

“Yeah,” said Trevor, reaching for it. “Let’s be civilized, hey?” He splashed an obligatory amount into his glass, just enough to turn the amber liquid brown.

“Kelli pop,” said Kelli with a note of impatience.

“Sorry, Kell,” I said. “Feeling left out?” But Trevor was already on his feet, getting down a glass for her.

And then he started talking before I could.

It had not begun like I thought it did. It had not begun with my mother gazing helplessly up at a gutter overflowing with autumn leaves that had been left to rot over the winter and congeal in the drainpipes like cholesterol clotting an artery. It hadn’t begun with a blown fuse needing to be replaced, or a loose step crying out to be nailed down before a heedless Kelli, lumbering her way toward the car in anticipation of whatever treat she’d been promised to get her moving, could be tripped and sent sprawling, ass over teakettle. There hadn’t even been so much as an especially stubborn jar lid that required twisting into submission by a muscular pair of hands. Irene hadn’t needed Trevor, not at first. Trevor had needed Irene.

Oh, the good-son shtick came later, no question. There was the lawn mowing, the yard work that Mr. Gill had witnessed. The extracurricular weekend walks with Kelli. And then finally, the big ask: a late-night trip to the ER when my mother lost her voice and was convinced the cancer had abruptly colonized her throat. (It turned out that her preparation for her church choir’s Christmas concert — which, of course, she was solely responsible for organizing — had merely been too exacting, i.e., performed to Irene’s usual standards, i.e., she had been belting out high-pitched O come let us adore hims every other night, multiple times a night, for weeks on end, and blown her vocal cords to shit.) But this incident — the rush to the ER — had been the first time Irene called on Trevor to go above and beyond for her. Because she was scared, and she had no one else to call. “Took her long enough,” smirked Trevor. He’d been offering himself up to her for months, he said — for grocery runs, Kelli-sitting, whatever Rini needed — but Irene always insisted she was “fine.” Which rang familiar. She resisted him, Trevor implied, as long as she could before finally picking up the phone and croaking out a request for help.