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Bretta holds the bottle up to the light. She swishes the fluid around, as though the act of movement will somehow reveal a trick her eyes are seeing; and that she’s not staring at a mostly empty bottle of rubbing alcohol. “What happened?”
    Denise shrugs like she knows but doesn’t want to say. Bretta looks up at her, expecting an answer, and finally Denise says, “I don’t know. Ask Coop.”
    “You guys bathe in this?” Bretta says. “Is that why you both reeked like chemicals this morning?”
    Denise shakes her head. Just then, Cooper stumbles into the room, his shirt off, one hand on the door frame and the other leaning on the doorknob, hanging there, flushed, his eyes shot with blood and drool shining his lips. He looks at Scott, and he smiles and says, “Hey, buddy.”
    “Oh no,” Bretta says. “Oh you didn’t.”
    “I didn’t,” Denise says.
    The sound of her voice makes Cooper laugh, in time to the beat of fists on walls.

 
    Chapter 6
     
    Bretta’s parents always told her there’s a right way and a wrong way to have an argument. The right way, her momma said, was to stay calm and make a point about the issue without being critical. Don’t resort to name-calling, and always be respectful of the other person’s feelings. Her father told her she should always try to see it from the other person’s viewpoint; both the argument and the way she presented her case.
    Seeing it the way another person would is called being empathic, and having empathy allows you to be a better person. Her parents began telling her this at a very young age. When she first started fighting with her younger sister, and all through her life until she left home at 20.
    They said all of this, and Bretta tried to always mind them.
    She starts her side of the argument like this:
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you stupid asshole? You want to fucking kill yourself too?” She’s got the bottle in hand, and she’s shaking it at him like she’s mixing a bottle of salad dressing.
    Cooper’s eyebrows twitch. He says, “Come on now, calm down.”
    He pulls himself up so he’s not leaning on the door anymore, and Denise, hands up by her throat, says, “Come on guys, Scott’s not feeling well.”
    “Seriously, Cooper?” Bretta is not to be outdone by reason. “Forget for a second we need this stuff to clean people’s fucking wounds, but you can literally die from drinking this.”
    “I only drank a little bit,” Cooper says, his voice rising with annoyance. “I needed it after what happened.” His face is beginning to harden, and he huffs his breath drunkenly through his nose. The sound of Bretta and Cooper as a duet renews the interest of the dead people outside. A lone, hard fist thuds on the boards covering the window to Scott’s room. Then a pair start up near the front of the house.
    Cooper waves a hand toward the drumming. “Happy now?”
    “Can you guys bring it down a notch?” Denise asks, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.
    Scott turns so he can look at the window.
    “I’m not fucking happy,” Bretta huffs. “I’m pissed off. And now we have barely enough alcohol left to clean Scott’s arm.”
    “Well maybe Scott shouldn’t have fucking cut his arm!”
    “You think I don’t know that? You think you’re some big fucking genius, Cooper?”
    “You mean, do you think I’m you?” Cooper laughs. “No way, lady.”
    Bretta holds up the bottle. “You’re damned right you’re not me. I’d never be stupid enough to guzzle this shit like I’m a goddamn hobo.”
    “Don’t call me a homo! ” Cooper’s hand is on the doorknob and his knuckles are white. More drummers have found the house, and their noise is getting louder.
    “Enough already,” Denise says, louder. “Stop it, both of you.”
    “Oh my God, Cooper! Are you retarded? I said ho-BO. Do you have shit in your ears?”
    There’s a thump on the wall, inside the room this time. “Oh,” Denise says,