When I was six years old, my older sister Hannah found a mouse trapped in an empty bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey. 

We were cleaning the garage after one of our dad's parties. He threw parties every two or three weeks, depending on his rotation in the military. Hannah and I would clean the next morning. 

I always wanted to join my dad and his friends during the warm summer nights. I would lie in bed listening to their laughter. I would grab them beers, pretending I understood their jokes. 

Dad let Hannah and I split the money after we carried the trash bags down Cottonwood Hill to the recycling depot. 

During the day, we kept the garage door open. A fresh breeze was the easiest way to remove the strong smoke smell and stale air from the previous night.

When Hannah discovered the mouse, I was kneeling on our front lawn. I held Budweiser cans under the spigot to rinse out cigarette butts and leftover beer. Suddenly, Hannah screamed from the garage. 

"Clayton," she called. "Clay, come quick!"

She pointed at the bottle of Wild Turkey on the floor. Visible through the bottom of the caramel-colored glass, its nose probing around, was a mouse.

The whiskey bottle’s rim nudged a slouching black garbage bag. The bag stretched at the bottom from too many bottles shoved into it.

Dad was furious with Hannah for using too many bags the last time we cleaned. When angry, Dad refused to talk to us for days. And he was only home a few days at a time, most of which he spent in the garage with his friends. 

So Hannah was determined to use fewer bags.

She squeaked in protest as I kneeled for a closer look at the mouse. 

The glass distorted my view, making it look like the mouse had golden brown fur. Patches of fur were missing on the scruff of its neck and down both sides of its body. 

Its ragged, small torso sat on pink paws. Its skinny body was only about four times as wide as its tail. 

The mouse sniffed at the remaining sip of whiskey inside the bottle. It had dark eyes and one ear pointed higher than the other.

"Don't pick it up," Hannah said.

I ignored her and lifted the Wild Turkey bottle into the air. 

The mouse ran in a small circle. The faint smell of vanilla wafted from inside the bottle.

"Can we name him?" I asked.

"No, we can't name it! Put it down. It could make you sick," Hannah said.

"Should we tell Mom and Dad?"

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. "They'll be mad if we wake them up early on a Saturday," Hannah said.

"Why is he in there?" I asked.

"What do we do?" she wondered.

I set the bottle on the floor, facing upwards. We watched the mouse stand and press its body against the glass before sliding back down. Its tail curled beside its body, half covered by the brown puddle at the bottom.

"What if we break the bottle?" I asked. "So he can escape."

Hannah looked at me, then at the mouse. She rubbed her hands against her bare legs. "Won't that hurt it?" she asked. "I don't want to hurt it."

She picked up the bottle, holding it to her face. The mouse shied away from her. Her fingers wrapped around the bottle’s neck. She swung it back and forth, and the mouse slid around.

I imagined the bottle smashing against the concrete floor. I pictured glass shards showering the mouse. My chest tightened.