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down.
    I sit on the edge of her bed and realize her cup of vodka and juice is back on her nightstand along with an opened packet of sleeping pills. She smiles at me. I take a deep, controlled breath, give her a smile, and draw the bow along the strings.
    The first notes of “Amazing Grace” make her slide farther down against her pillow. I’ve played this song so many times forher, I don’t even have to think about finger placement anymore. I focus on her eyes closing. On the peace she’s finally getting.
    And she is breathing evenly as soon as I hit the fourth verse—“Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, and mortal life shall cease . . .”
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    I snag her drink from the nightstand and dump the alcohol in the kitchen sink. Then I scan for where I threw my keys when I first bolted in. They lie next to a pile of unopened bills, the same kind of pile we had in Hallend before we had to leave. Foreclosure blows.
    Still, by some stroke of luck, just before we were kicked out on the street, Sam’s mom, Mrs./Mayor Kearns, called me and Mom and happened to mention that she owned properties in Pineville. I asked her if we could rent one for a while.
    â€œI’ll let you stay in one for a discounted rate,” she’d said, “because your mother helped me pass the bar exam.”
    We keep drawing on Mom’s past lucidity like a well running dry. One day, the favors will dry up, too. And we’ll be screwed.
    My cell phone rings in my pocket. “Shit!” I fumble for it before it wakes Mom. “Hello?”
    â€œJack? It’s Dad.”
    â€œHey.” I keep my voice low, in do-not-disturb mode. This convo won’t take long. Dad and I used to be close. Before Ryan died. We fished, biked, hung together all the time. Now all we do is go through the same phone routine once or twice a week.
    â€œHow’s it going?” he asks.
    â€œPerfect.” I feign happy.
    â€œThe new house working out for you?”
    â€œIt’s great. Yep, great,” I say, looking around at how
not
great it is.
    My dad clears his throat. “Jack, don’t forget I’ve got that extra bedroom just waiting for you. I can even get you a job over at—”
    â€œDad, things are good here.” I work to sound convincing. I was thirteen when he and Mom split. Mom was still doing her job well and bringing in clients, so despite her drinking, Dad left the choice to stay with Mom up to me. I totally dig that. I don’t want him to worry. “Everything’s working out,” I tell him.
    â€œYour mom’s not drinking too much?”
    â€œWell, like many Americans, she loves her diet soda.”
    â€œJack, you know what I mean.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad. Seriously. She’s been good lately,” I lie. But if Dad knew Mom’s problems went way beyond her love for vodka, all kinds of custody hell would break loose. Then I’d have to watch Mom lose everything. “She’s got it under control.”
    â€œAll right. Do you need anything?” he asks.
    I glance over at the bills. My tongue runs against the soothing line of my lip ring. During the divorce, Mom agreed to let Dad send all his child support money toward college for me. So we can’t rely on that. Which means I’ll have to pick up extra shifts at both my jobs or get Mom healthy enough for a while so she can take on some meaty cases without the chance of her hearing little people in the courtroom walls or accusing the judge of being Satan’s cousin.
    â€œIt’s all good,” I say.
    A heavy pause sits between us before he says, “All right. Love you, son.”
    â€œThanks, Dad.” I release a genuine smile. It’s cool he calls and gives a crap if I’m okay.
    I pocket my phone, then head back to Mom’s bedroom door. I lean my forehead against it, close my eyes, and feel the weight