Javier made change with Conrad—twenties for tens, fives, and ones—and the game resumed. The first hand went to Javier, stoking thoughts of a wholesale turnaround, but then, immediately, the old pattern returned. Conrad hogged all the luck. Tom picked up a pot here and there, and Javier landed a small one now and again, but Conrad’s good fortune was too much to battle. It was a force of nature, overwhelming. Soon, Javier was again back at the bottom, having lost a big bet on a good hand and then making some bad gambles, trying to turn his luck from the inside. From the way he gritted his teeth and pressed his elbows against his ribs, it seemed he had lost his hold on the circumstances. Under the glass his free hand was clenched tightly, tapping his knee.

Conrad won yet again. He pulled the pot to his chest with an air of near-apology. Even he seemed astonished by the duration of his streak this night. Tom considered offering Javier some advice, urging him to back off, but figured it wasn’t his place to say anything.

Javier was the captain of his own destiny. Reality had proven malleable on some fronts this day. Who knew where and when the next bend would occur? He seemed prepared to go all the way, though, to hit whatever wall, whatever floor, he was hurtling toward.

“Shall we continue the massacre?” Conrad said, emptying a tequila bottle evenly into the three glasses and mopping the spilled droplets with his shirttails. “I don’t want anyone to say I didn’t give them a chance.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tom said. “We’re digging our own graves here.”

“Very well then. We continue.”

Javier dealt. He had enough money to ante up, but not much for the betting. If he could make a stand, he seemed to think, it might be possible that the whole world would pivot on its axis. The gods might yet change their minds.

Tom checked his cards. At first he saw nothing, just a loose bunch of red odds and ends. But then, as he arranged the cards in his fingers, they began to fall into a more promising order. The cogs clicked and the cards dropped into place and suddenly, to his pleasure, he found himself looking at a straight flush—hearts, six through ten. A mild buzz went through him. When he turned his cards moments later, he couldn’t help but let out a moan of pleasure. Javier, however, made a strangled noise in his throat and scraped his fist against his knee.

“Let that be a lesson,” Conrad said, tossing his cards on the table. “The god of poker is a bitch-goddess.”

“No doubt about it,” Tom said, taking his winnings.