“I’m not a fan of fruity cocktails, and beer makes me feel like a tub.”

“I’ll have the same,” Lou heard his detached voice say. “Neat.”

Vicki’s eyes narrowed. Even though he’d been engaged by her, thoughts of Cap and the grotesque infection ravaging his leg hung in his mind like a Cape Cod fog. Partial amputation … reamputation … sepsis … weakness … death. For years he had fought to stay in the moment—to vigorously avoid projecting outcomes into the future. Now, he was solidly planted in possibilities. No matter what Vicki or anybody else said, he felt responsible for what happened to his sponsor. It was his fault. And dammit, this was the moment—he wanted a drink.

“You sure?” Vicki asked.

The waitress stood by patiently.

“Yeah,” Lou said finally. “I’m sure.”

The girl smiled, nodded, and promised to be right back.

“I’m not your babysitter, Lou,” she said. “You’re a big boy and you can make your own decisions.”

“Okay, then. I’m deciding I want to know more about you.”

Her expression darkened.

“It’s not the happiest of stories,” she said.

“In that case, clearly you’ve come a long way.”

“Well, let’s see. I became damaged goods very early in life. I was an only child and my parents were both very abusive to me.”

Lou cringed. “Physically?”

“And mentally, but mostly physically. They were religious fundamentalists, who believed in the importance of discipline. I’m not talking a spanking now and again. I have the scars to prove it was a whole lot more than that. After my father put out his cigarette on my backside when I had just turned fourteen, I decided it was time to leave home for good.”

Lou was sickened by the thought. He could not imagine ever laying a hand on Emily, let alone burning her.

“Where’d you go? Did you move in with a relative?”

Vicki shook her head. “No, I didn’t trust anybody. Not even the police. I worried they wouldn’t believe me and I’d be sent back to live with my parents, so I just ran. For a long time I lived on the streets.”

Vicki’s story was interrupted when the waitress returned, set their drinks down in front of them, and asked if they wanted to order food. When there was no response from either of them, she pledged to be back and scooted off. Lou had been too occupied with Vicki’s story, and now his drink, to respond. His drunk dream last night was like a Ouija board message, telling him that ten years was quite long enough and that he had earned what he was about to get. He imagined the taste—the wondrous velvety burn of a good bourbon.

Jim Beam.