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room?”
    “Felt like it at the time…”
    Myron stirred, reaching blindly for his glass, but all he managed to do was knock it to the floor with a clatter. Undaunted, he raised his head and took a long swig from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork as he drank.
    Back before his wife died, before he allowed himself to slide down a slope slickened by alcohol, Myron Ellis had been a handsome man. He was tall and a bit thin, with his shock of thick black hair and no small amount of charm, he’d had his own share of success while courting Buckton’s pretty young ladies. But now, sitting in the dark kitchen, drunk and struggling to stay conscious, he was almost unrecognizable. His eyes were bloodshot and wet. His skin was pale, with the exception of his cheeks, which were flushed red. His shirt was stained with Lord knows what. Myron looked utterly beaten, and he’d surrendered without much of a fight.
    Looking at his father, Hank felt many different emotions all at once. He was angry, sad, and plenty worried.
    But most of all, he was disappointed.
    Over the last couple of weeks, Hank had allowed himself to hope that his father was finally coming out of his depression. He wasn’t drinking every night, and when he was sober, Myron seemed more like his old self. He’d mowed the grass, cooked a stew, and even come out to the workshop to look at his son’s craftsmanship, making a suggestion here and there, although he hadn’t picked up his own tools for months. They’d shared a laugh about Johnny Temple, the diminutive second baseman for the Reds, wondering whether he’d ever manage to hit another home run.
    Now all that hope was gone.
    Hank bent down and began to pick up the broken pieces of the dish his father had hurled against the wall.
    “Always cleanin’ up your old man’s messes, ain’t ya?”
    Hank didn’t answer.
    “Must be quite the sight…”
    When his father drank, he became maudlin. His melancholy made him want to drink more, creating a cycle from which Myron never seemed able to escape.
    “How about I put on a pot of coffee?” Hank suggested.
    “If you’ve got a hankerin’ for it,” Myron answered. “As for me, I got my own drink right here, though I’m gonna have to make do without a glass…”
    When his father lifted his bottle to take another drink, Hank snatched it from his hand. He took it to the sink and began to pour it down the drain.
    “Now, wait a minute!” Myron barked, his voice sounding panicked. He made to get out of his chair, his irritation fueling him, but he was too soused to manage it. When he plopped back down, he nearly tipped over and had to steady himself on the edge of the table.
    Even as the last of the whiskey disappeared, Hank didn’t feel victorious. Every time he found liquor in the house he got rid of it, but his father had proven to be sneakier than expected. He hid bottles everywhere—in the backs of closets, beneath the basement steps, even in the attic, tucking them among the exposed beams. It was a war Hank couldn’t win.
    “Ah, it’s probably for the best,” Myron said, surrendering with a shrug. “It wasn’t helpin’ me forget ’bout Pete anyhow…”
    Hank stood at the sink with his back to his father. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating his reflection in the window for a quick second; his face was creased by a deep frown, his lips drawn, his jaw tense. His hands squeezed a dish towel so tightly it was as if he was trying to strangle it.
    “The other day…I was at the grocery store…” his father continued. “There were these two ladies lookin’ at me from down the other end of the aisle. They must’ve thought they were far enough away that I wouldn’t hear ’em, but I could…” His voice changed, becoming higher, almost theatrical as he tried to imitate the women’s conversation. “‘Look at that poor man. Isn’t he the one whose oldest boy killed his brother in that car accident a couple months