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Sloane narrowed her eyes. “What did you eat?”

“A sandwich.”

“With?”

“Turkey.”

“And?”

“Cheese.”

Grandma folded her arms. “Fruit?”

“There were pickles. Do those count?”

“Pickles aren’t fruit,” Sloane said.

“It’s produce. Same difference.”

Grandma reached under the drink table and produced a large metal bottle covered in flower decals. She handed it to me.

I looked at it. “Where did this come from?”

“I brought it for you.”

She had applied white vinyl letters down the side.

HUDSON

Beneath that, in smaller lettering:

DRINK OR SLOANE WILL FUSS AT YOU

Sloane read it and laughed hard enough to lean into Grandma Ruth.

“You made this?”

Grandma looked innocent. “I have a cutting machine.”

“I showed her how to use it,” Patty said as she passed behind us carrying a tray of cupcakes.

“That makes sense,” I said.

Sloane took the bottle from Grandma, twisted off the cap, and held it out to me. “Drink.”

I stared at her. She raised her eyebrows. Grandma stood beside her with both hands clasped at her waist, waiting.

Several nearby relatives had begun watching.

I took the bottle.

The women applauded when I drank.

From across the hall, Trevor shouted, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

I stopped and pointed at him. “Don’t start.”

“He listens to you,” Grandma said, patting Sloane’s arm.