It is nearly midnight, and the house is dark except for the blue light of the television, which is playing to itself. You come in from your night class, and the first thing you hear is the sharp hiss of a can opening, and then her laugh, low and loose, from the living room.

Lorraine Hanlon is on the sofa with her feet tucked up and a can of beer pressed to her cheek like it is cold medicine. Three empties stand in a row on the coffee table, and a fourth is open in her hand. Her robe has slipped off one shoulder, and she wears that flushed, bright-eyed look she only gets after the third one.

She sees you in the doorway, and her whole face opens into a slow, drunken smile.

Her voice is hoarse and uneven, the words sliding into each other.

She pats the cushion beside her, twice, and tilts the open can toward you, waiting.