Where Nerves End

it was just us now. The calm after the party.
Michael left Dylan to unpack his things upstairs in his room, and came down to the kitchen. He pulled a beer out of the refrigerator.
“I really appreciate all of this, by the way.” Michael leaned against the kitchen counter. “Letting us move in.”
“Hey, I need it as badly as you do.”
“Win-win, then.” He set his beer aside and dug a teakettle out of one of the boxes stacked on the floor. “Fair warning, this shit doesnt smell great.”
“Tea? It usually smells pretty good, doesnt it?”
“Usually, yes.” He took out a Ziploc bag filled with leaves and twigs, and as he emptied it into the kettle, he said, “But trust me on this. Some people arent crazy about the way herbs like these smell.”
“Dare I ask what it is?” I asked as he filled the kettle with water.
He said something that I could never in a million years have understood.
“I…beg your pardon?”
He laughed and set the kettle on the burner. “Just a bunch of Chinese herbs. And enjoy not knowing what they are or what they taste like, because Ill probably make you take some eventually.”
“Oh good. Cant wait.” I sipped my beer.
Tea? I think I’d rather drink hot dog water.
While the kettle warmed up, Michael picked up his beer.
“So you mix tea and beer?” I wrinkled my nose. “Lovely.”
He laughed again. “Hey, I feel like having a beer. And that”— he nodded toward the kettle—“wont be ready to drink for an hour or so anyway. So between now and then Ill—” He stopped suddenly and turned his head, his eyes losing focus as he craned his neck like he was listening for something.
“Whats wrong?”
“Damn it.” He set his beer down and pushed himself away from the counter. “Dylans coughing.” He started up the stairs and threw over his shoulder, “His asthmas kicking up again. Ill be right back.”
Moments later, Dylan came down the stairs. His eyes were red, and he paused to cough into his elbow.
“Hey, champ,” I said. “Not feeling so great?”
He shook his head and coughed again. When he took a breath, he wheezed faintly, so I didnt push him to speak.
His dad came down the stairs behind him with a box under his arm. He nudged Dylan. “Set up your game, kiddo. Youre not going to be moving for a while.”
Dylan took off his T-shirt and tossed it over the back of the couch. Neither Michael nor I said anything about folding it or putting it in a hamper.
We didnt have the PlayStation set up yet, but Dylan had one of the smaller handheld devices. He lay on his stomach on the living room floor and played contentedly while Michael knelt beside him and started pulling things out of the box: a long, slim pair of tongs. Some cotton balls. Rubbing alcohol. A lighter. Four round glass jars that resembled fish bowls and were about the size of my fist.
Fascinated, I watched, wondering what the hell he was doing.
Once everything was laid out, Michael picked up the tongs and pinched a cotton ball between them. He dipped the cotton in the rubbing alcohol, and my eyes darted toward the lighter beside the jars.
I cleared my throat. “So, um, what exactly—”
“Cupping.” Michael didnt look up. “Helps with asthma.” He picked up the lighter, flicked it, and held it to the cotton ball. “Ready, kid?”
“Yep.” Lying in front of him, idly kicking his legs back and forth the way kids often did, Dylan focused on his game and didnt seem the least bit concerned.
Holding the tongs in one hand, Michael picked up one of the jars in the other. He held both close to his sons back, turning the jar open side down. He put the flaming cotton ball inside it, held it there for a moment, and then quickly took it out in the same instant he put the jar on Dylans back, just below his left shoulder. The cotton ball was still in the tongs, still merrily burning, and the boy didnt flinch at all when the jar met his skin. When Michael released it, the jar remained in place on Dylans back.
He started to put a second one in place, but Dylan started coughing again. Michael waited until the coughing had passed, and then, “You all right?”
“Im good.”
Michael put the flame inside one of the jars and leaned down to put it beside the first, but hesitated for a second when Dylan coughed once more. Then, he withdrew the flame and put the cup on Dylans back.
He put a total of four of the jars—cups?—on his sons back, then sat cross-legged beside him. After a few minutes, he glanced up at me,