Content warning: Cancer, language, and death. Dad begs to be cremated but Aldon won't hear of it. Never mind that he's saying this at the table right in front of our old man, or that he has less money than the rest of us to spend on a casket and burial plot. As the oldest son, he thinks whatever he says goes. "It's not right, being cremated," he tells us. He's got this look on his face like Dad just asked him to eat some roadkill. "It's just not right. And besides, you should want to be next to Mom. Did you forget we buried her too?" Dad grapples with the lighter in his sandpaper hands. It takes him a few tries before he procures a flame. "And I'm still regretting it," he says, sparking to life the cigarette that's dangling from his mouth. "Worst mistake of my life." This, even though his lungs are black as the ace of spades. Even though the cancer has started to metastasize and he's stopped attending his chemotherapy. "You can't mean that," Aldon replies, and he and Grover and I watch our father exhale Marlboro smoke in perfect gray rings. "And why not?" Dad takes another drag. His eyes close in the way they do when he's about to dispense his wisdom. Smoke wafts around him in a cloud when he speaks, makes him look like Pig-Pen from Peanuts. "Let me tell you boys something. Love ain't blind, grief is. Hell, if I'd've known how much all that stuff was gonna cost, how much of a toll it'd take, we would've cremated her too." Grover shifts in his seat. He's been attending Nicotine Anonymous for about a month now, ever since Dad informed us of his Stage 4 diagnosis. You wouldn't know it though, not from the way he traces the cigarette's every movement, or how he leans forward whenever one of Dad's smoke rings appears. He bites down on a dirty fingernail, his new bad habit, and says, "Don't talk like that, Dad." As the youngest son, he's used to getting what he wants. "What? I'm just talking." Dad shrugs and turns to me. We all know this is just for show. As the middle son, my opinion is irrelevant. "Might as well get in all the words that I can while I'm still around." "Dad, please," Grover pleads. For a moment he is ten years old again instead of thirty, a scared child asking his father not to shut off the nightlight, to stay with him a while longer. Dad called this morning and asked each of us to come over, said he had some important news to disclose. I drove first to Aldon's house—his truck is in the shop again—and then we picked up Grover, who still doesn't have his license. The December air was cool, and little flakes of snow started to come down as we pulled into the driveway. When my brothers and I piled out of my van and stumbled into Dad's house, the first thing he said was, "Doctor gave me 'bout a month," and then we all just stood there listening to the tick-tock of his grandfather clock. Aldon stands now and starts rummaging through one of the kitchen cabinets. He returns to the table carrying three glasses and a bottle of Jim Beam. "You should really get a better hiding spot," he says, jiggling the bottle. He pours a shot of whiskey for me and Dad and Grover, keeps the bottle for himself. "How 'bout I just leave you that bottle in the will?" Dad retorts, and Aldon drinks to that. "I'll look into setting things up with the cemetery this week," he says. "See if they still have a spot close to Mom that we can reserve. Soon as I do that, you're free to leave me whatever you want." Dad takes a breath. It looks like he's about to argue but then he starts coughing, a noise like thunder. The wheezing rattles his body. He hunches over, one fist clenched tightly in front of his mouth, the upshot of five decades of smoking. The sound floods the room. My own throat starts to tighten. Grover pushes his glass of whiskey in front of Dad, begging him to take a drink, to help himself. Aldon takes a long swig of Jim Beam. A full minute passes before Dad recovers. He breathes deeply, massages his chest with one hand. Gulps his own whiskey shot, downs Grover's, then silently returns to his stubby cigarette. He is alive. Outside, the neighbor's dog barks. An ambulance whizzes by, sirens whooping, and paints our blue and red shadows across the kitchen walls. But inside the house we are quiet. We listen to the world pass by, listen to the sound of one another's breathing. I clear my throat. "You really don't want to be buried?" I ask, my first words since we arrived. My body is turned toward my father but I'm looking out the picture window behind him, watching the hood of my car slowly collect snow, seeing the tiny flakes grow into something big and distinguishable. "No." One word, one syllable, no explanation. And as our father, that is all he needs to say. He gives the cigarette one final puff. Then he grinds the butt in his ashtray to show he means business. *** On the drive home Aldon and Grover and I made a pact. We agreed to visit Dad a few times each week, check in on him, help around the house