We sit in the basement in my parents’ old Tulip Drive house. We’re just inside the laundry room door, sitting on the concrete floor. The washer and dryer are running. We hear noises from above. What could they be? Our neighbor comes downstairs with a friend. A smell trails them. What is that? She shows us a six-pack of home-brewed beer. Ginger ale? In either case, it’s too sweet and the bottles are warm. It is not ready to drink; not yet. The door to the backyard opens and someone comes in. It is a man, tall and older and wearing glasses. I have trouble with the details because I myself am not wearing my glasses. I call out to him. “Who are you?” He steps closer, as if that is explanation enough. Is it our neighbor’s father? Or “George” from Six Feet Under?