““Steve?” she called out, surprised. “Yeah,” came the sullen reply. She pursed her lips. He was in a mood again. She checked their mother, Maria, who was staring, transfixed, at the TV set, its sound reduced to a murmur, and rose to her feet, the magazine still in one hand. As she passed by, her fingers caressed the older woman’s frail shoulder, to no reaction. “Be right back, Mom.” Steve was still in the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge. He straightened, bearing a can of beer. It was nine in th...e morning. “What’re you doing?” she asked. “I’m having a beer, all right?” he said belligerently. “Why?” “ ’Cause I feel like it.” He took a swig. Steve was an alcoholic. Sadly, their mother had seen to that, making him her teenage drinking buddy after Abílo and José had been taken. But he’d never attended AA, had taken only whatever prison counseling he’d been obliged to, and had otherwise relied on Lyn and his own reborn sense of responsibility to stay straight.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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