When I wake up, Greg and Cindy are curled up together on the rug under an afghan. I go to the kitchen, sticking my head under the sink and guzzling as much water as I can get down.
Out the window I can see by the light cast from the kitchen that it has stopped raining. I can also see Grandad sitting on a lawn chair, a beer in hand, looking at the dark expanse of his muddy backyard and ramshackle shed. I still feel a little tipsy.
I let the screen door slam behind me as I join him. He barely even looks up.
“Hey,” I say as I fumble to unfold another chair.
“You look a little worse for wear,” Grandad says, pulling out a pipe from his pocket and packing it with tobacco. “Better sit down before you fall down.”
I sit unsteadily. The chair creaks. “Since when do you smoke a pipe?”
“I don’t,
