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the person I knew as my mother. I can’t lose my daughter too.” She wants him to say he completely understands, to come hold her, to be with her on this.
    â€œSo many mothers,” he says in a far-off voice. “Like brush fires.”
    It hits Jill that, since last weekend, her own chances of losing her mind some day have increased exponentially. Perhaps the dementia is starting right here, right now. A slow unravelling, an involuntary loosening of her grip on life. And any control she believes she has over her life is part of the delusion.
    A frantic-sounding laugh is heard from Quinn’s room below.

    Quinn’s hands shake as, naked beside his bed, he touches the cool, clean skin of Lauren’s waist, his stomach on fire from the three rum shots he downed in the bathroom before brushing his teeth a second time. He wishes to God the lights were off, but she wanted them on and he glances at the window blinds for any gaps. Hears voices from the family room on the far side of the wall and stops breathing, anticipates his mother’s mortifying knock on his bedroom door. He can’t shake the feeling that Jill somehow knows what he’s up to. And the even weirder feeling that he wants her to know.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” asks Lauren.
    â€œNothing.”
    Pressed up against him, Lauren runs the points of her fingernails through his hair and he is temporarily paralyzed with pleasure. She kisses him with intention and he knows it’s his turn to kiss back with the same. He keeps his eyes firmly closed and is embarrassed how his growing penis pushes at her. As the rum blurs the edges of his self-consciousness, he tells himself he’s going to be able to keep it up this time. Maybe Lauren will try something new. There’s still that residual sense coming off her, though he fears it’s fading, that the fault had been hers.

Eight Months Later

QUINN
    After the party, there’s a cab. Jewish guy calls the front seat.
    Dreading making his one phone call, Quinn sits on the bench in the jail cell and works a grass stain on his new grey boat shoes. With each heartbeat, blood pounds past his ears hammering home how much he drank last night, his mouth so dry it hurts to swallow.
    â€œCan I get some water in here?” he croaks at the soundproof door at the end of the hall where a muted conversation between receptionist and cop is visible through the door’s long rectangular window. There’s got to be a camera and mic in here somewhere and he’s being heard over the phlegm-rattled snores of the guy in the cell across from his.
    â€œPlease?” A fresh thorn of pain momentarily blinds his right eye. How much did he drink?
    Beside him, in the back seat is?
    He flashes on being ten when neighbourhood kids, a year older and meaner, held him down, stripped him naked and hid his clothes. A nightmare come true, he had to run the long block home, using bushes and speed as cover. When his mom found out she went straight to the kids’ homes and confronted their parents. He’s not sure which was more humiliating, but the kids never bothered him again.
    I didn’t do it, he’ll tell her and closes his eyes to shake down his dehydrated brain for whatever the hell he did do last night.
    The cabbie wears a purple turban, his profile the spitting image of Auntie Annie’s bust of Nefertiti.
    What he does remember is the promise to help Mom move offices this morning. She probably tried to call his cellphone, which hopefully is still in his jacket, wherever that is – he pats the inside pocket of his vest – along with his wallet. Did the cops really empty the contents of his pockets into a Baggie, or is he imagining it?
    God he’s tired, though he did sleep or pass out at some point, because he remembers waking up. His neighbour’s snoring stops cold, causing Quinn’s shoulders to drop an inch, though he wasn’t aware they were tensed. If he