They slept on the floor when you drank.
Like worried puppies, too small to reach the bed stand, sat with their backs against the wall by the bathroom while you showered. He and his sister hid car keys and telephones.
Peering over ledges, he watched your listless eyes wonder to windows, thinking of his father, of home, of separation. Toes curled against the kitchen counter, he would beg his sister to hide, beg you to sleep...
She cleaned the sinks, the rugs, the ashtrays. He capped the bottles, placing them on the highest shelves. You woke up to Saturday morning news, a headache, and a new pack of cigarettes.
No one spoke on Saturday mornings.