Argenis felt in his bones the tiredness that his mother had felt on those afternoons, scrubbing the dishes with dark sweat stains in the armpits of her tailored suits. Back then he always spat those dinners back out onto his plate, the dinners she’d come all the way back home to make, riding there in a stinking concho in the break between two classes at the university. Something akin to empathy, sadness, or responsibility overwhelmed him and he realized that his mother had extended her sphere of influence to touch him through the squeezy ketchup bottle she’d put in his luggage. She had injected him with some of her patience, the same patience she’d pulled out from under some rock back then so she wouldn’t shoot herself in the head. He decided to wait until the next day to make any decision, and instead spent the afternoon on the balcony finishing the Asimov book, which that piece of shit had ended on a cliffhanger so you’d have to buy the next one.

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“Asere, this is communism. You think I get those vials from a bottomless tank?” Bengoa was on his knees, complaining about the mistake Argenis had made, about the extra Temgesics he’d consumed, about the trouble this would make for him, as he searched the kitchen trash bag for the used syringes and empty vials that would confirm the details of Argenis’s confession.

All this was pretty far from his stupid plans with Susana, who was cleaning the kitchen, eyes on the floor, while the doctor scolded him. If she didn’t already know it, Bengoa had now made it clear to her. Argenis was a junkie. A big, fat junkie. Such a junkie that he had gotten hooked on the medicine meant to detox him. As if that weren’t enough, when Bengoa saw Argenis fiddling with the sugar bowl on the kitchen table, head hanging, the doctor changed his tone and spoke to him as if he were a child: “Argenis, son, you have to take advantage of this opportunity. Think of your dad, spending all this money on you. You can’t let him down.” Argenis considered telling him what he thought of his father, but it wouldn’t have helped him any. He wanted the doctor to leave, but he also didn’t want to be left alone with Susana. “From now on you’ll have to come to my house for your injections, every afternoon at four.” He left him the two vials for that day and put the ones he’d brought with him back into his fanny pack. He pointed out a bag of oatmeal, powdered milk, and cabbage he’d brought and said, “Tell Susana to draw you a map to my house,” before taking off without saying goodbye or leaving any money.