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Winter's rhinestone-clad shirt faintly sparkles under the overhead fluorescent lighting of the basement as she chuckles softly. Mel gives her a look from the puny podium but stays quiet.

“Right. Anyway,” Winter continues. “It just started out as a hobby, you know. I was bored one day. My husband watches football every Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Thursday.” She ticks the days off on her fingers and sticks her tongue out, as if to emphasize how annoying this is, but her pink lips are smiling. “So I just thought, what if I had my own fun—bet on the games so I could be more engaged. Like marriage therapy or something.” The familiar sounds of the LL meetings occur in her pause: the sliding of the metal folding chairs, a cough, someone texting, a crunch on a stale cookie. I look at the coffee in my hands, the thought of tasting it nearly makes me gag.

Winter lets out a long sigh, toying with her dark ponytail. “Well, after that, I just couldn’t stop. I’d win; I’d fly. I’d be clapping and hollering. And I mean, my husband loved that I was watching the ball games. It was only ten dollars here or twenty there. Then I’d lose.” Her eyes widen. “I got even more frantic to win again. Like, just one more bet. And, you know, they make it so easy—right on your dang phone and linked to your bank account!” She says it with a tone that impliescan you believe this?“I read once it has something to do with the dopamine—why it’s so fun, you know?

“It was fine, and then, over the summer, it was the Olympics and”—a breath whooshes out of her like air deflating from a tire—“I got us into some trouble.” She picks at one of the rhinestones on her shirt. “I drained our savings account, and now here I am. Trying to fix my mess or something. So, that’s my pitiful story.” She smiles, but it’s sadder than before. “Now football season is here and . . .”

“What if you took the apps off your phone?” I ask, cutting the silence.

Winter tilts her head as Mel mutters, “Christ, Scotty. Here we go.”

“Well,” Winter says thoughtfully. “I’d still know it’s there. Out of sight don’t mean out of mind when I know how good winning feels. I didn’t bet on a single game last weekend, though.” She beams at this.

“What about another hobby?” I press, sitting up taller. “When your husband watches football, you could knit or something.”

“I—”

“Do you even want to quit?” I snap, Winter’s cheery expression crashing. I’ve never understood why people don’t just stop. Why my brother never stopped. I never said it out loud, but deep down I wondered if it was as simple as him never wanting to. Like drugs gave him something nothing else could despite the damage they were causing. Like he simply didn’t give two shits about what anyone thought. Maybe Wren’s mom was no different: using because she wanted to. Because she was selfish. The sentiment makes my blood boil with rage. “It doesn’t even sound like you’re trying.” I’m shouting now. “What will your kids think if they see this? Do they know about the money?”

Winter looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Scotty!” Mel shouts, the entirety of Ledger’s Ledgers staring at me with wide eyes, gaping mouths, and Styrofoam cups of shouldn’t-even-be-called-coffee in hand. “Enough!”

My mouth snaps shut, and I sag back in my chair. Mel redirects the meeting to an alcoholic taking their turn to share; I don’t bother asking him any questions.

I was harsh, sure, but it’s not like it matters. Months of me saying what I say—trying to help them—yet here they all are making the same stupid choices, me not making a lick of difference. While I normally sit in here and stew about my decayed family tree, everyone today has made me think of Wren. Her mom choosing everything else over her, leading to where she is now: sad, scarred, and shattered to pieces.

And, of course, there’s the fact that I didn’t tell Ford, which has been festering in me like some kind of world-endingplague. It’s been nearly a week, and though I’ve seen Wren nearly every day—examining her body for fresh cuts like I know what the fuck I’m doing as she rolls her eyes—I’ve avoided him.

He fills up the birdseed; I wave and pretend I have somewhere to go.

He comes by to check on Wren; I tell him she’s fine.

He looks at me the way he looks at me; I threaten to throw him in the lake.

“Well, that was quite a show,” Mel says as we stand outside, meeting attendees scattering toward their cars around us. She takes a long drag from her cigarette followed by a smoke-filled exhale. “Even for you.”

“I aim to please,” I say dryly.

“You ever hear insanity is doing the same thing over and over hoping for a different result?” I nod. “Addiction feels like that. Least for me it did. If I get drunk today, maybe I won’t notice she’s gone. It didn’t work, so I’d try again the next day. And the next.”

“You’re insane,” I quip. “Explains so much.”

Her brows lift. “As insane as the woman who continues to harass others so she can keep shouldering the blame for something that has nothing to do with her.”

I give her a deadpan look. “I think my brother dying because I didn’t do enough to help him has a little bit to do with me.”

She drops the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomps it out before picking it up and tossing it in a trash can.

“Life is filled with tragedy, Scotty. People leave, people die. We feel hurt deeper than we imagine possible. Deeper than we thinkour bodies can bear. It’s on us to decide how we respond, for better or worse.”

I scoff.

“Listen,” she says, annoyed. “You and your brother grew up in the same house—same parents—but what happened to him isn’t on you. Hell, even your parents can’t claim full responsibility. Somewhere along the way, you made a choice, he made a different one.”

I . . . have never once considered this.

In my silence: “You need to let all of it go. Live for you. He doesn’t have now, my daughter either, but you do.” She gives a weak smile. “I do.”