At least Grandma’s lamp’s still in one piece, Doris told herself. She stood akimbo in the center of the living room, surveying the ruins spread over the carpet. Her sister Janette was laying naked on the devan, hiccouhing and firing smoke rings into the travertine fire place.

“Who’s that?” mouthed Doris, nodding toward the boy fondling her sister’s knee. Janette gazed at the crew-cut blond, curious. Any memories she might have recalled had been swallowed by the tequila worm still idling in her brain.

“Dunno,” she said, turning to face her stranger, “Who are you?” The boy smirked and slipped his hand between her thighs. She let out another hiccough, then, “apparently he is a very good friend.”

Doris bulldozed to a window through the wasteland of bottles. She planted her elbows on the sill and gazed for a long while at the cloud peaking over the horizon, wondering if it was radioactive. She closed her eyes and the thought of ice cream brought goosepimples to her skin.