Before he died, Sam came over to the house while Mom and Dad weren't home and we sat on the porch in the cold because he wanted to smoke and I told him that'll kill you and he kind of smiled in this haunted way and I immediately felt bad and wanted to take it back and I still do but we sat there on the porch in the cold and he smoked and I thought about the time he came home from rehab and he would smoke like his life depended on it and Mom would buy cartons and cartons of Eagle 20s because they were cheap and the house smelled terrible and we all smelled terrible but we didn't care because he was clean and I remembered this and my eyes started to burn and Sam looked on and smoked in quiet resignation, all his manic desperation long gone, his cheeks hollow and his jaw muscles sticking out as he clenched his teeth gaunt-faced and stony and I reached for the cigarette perched between his fingers and took a drag and held the smoke hot and swirling in my chest and he gave me a look that said Since when do you smoke? and I passed the cigarette back and he took it and smoked it and rested his hand on his knee there between us and I took the cigarette again and we went on like that until it was gone because we didn't have to say anything and I thought about how when we were kids he would draw my favorite cartoon characters on my arms and how looking at them would make me smile and he stared at the bare-branched trees rattling in the wind and the neighbor's Christmas lights blinking on and off.

Finally I said, Gram asked about you at Thanksgiving.

She did? he said. His voice was muffled through a fresh cigarette as he lit it.

She always does.

He blinked and his breath swelled out around his face all stormy and gray and I could tell he hadn't thought about Gram in a long time.

He said, I miss her butterscotch cookies.

I would've saved you some if I'd known you were stopping by.

It's okay, he said, and he picked up a twig off the porch step and chucked it into the street.

Then he said, Sylvie, and I said, Yeah? and he shook his head and said, Nothing.

So, I asked, will you be around for Christmas?

I might.

I hope so.

Me too.
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