“I am pleased that it has been returned, but you should have spoken to me before deciding on a course of action. You don’t think, Katsuro-chan. You never have. You are impetuous. Impulsive. I am pleased that you have been able to return the blade, but neither of us should be under the misapprehension that you were not lucky to find it, nor that you didn’t think about what might have happened if you had made yet another mistake. That is the difference between Miyasato and you. Your brother would have considered the consequences and then acted. You act first and then, when things go wrong—as they did this week—you cause more chaos and confusion trying to fix them.”

“And Miyasato is dead.” Katsuro couldn’t keep the note of gloating out of his voice.

“Something I regret every day.”

Katsuro bit down on his lip so hard that he drew blood. He looked down at the floor.

“Is there anything else?” Takashi asked him.

“No, Otōsan.” He turned to Sakura. “Come.”

“No,” Takashi said. “Wait. I will speak to her.”

110

Milton stared at the glass of whisky. It sat on the bar in front of him. He held the sobriety chip in his right hand, flipping the coin between his fingers like a gambler preparing to make a bet.

He had been in the bar for two hours and been wrestling with his conscience. He wanted to drink. He wanted oblivion, to drink himself to blackout, where he would be able to forget about Sakura and Yamato and everything else. He knew that it was false, that his demons would wait until he was drunk and then they would come out to play. They would hover at the edges of his consciousness, just as they always did, and wait for their opportunity, for the moment when he would not be able to restrain them. Milton wouldn’t care. Why should he? He would be out of his mind by then, and consequences were for tomorrow. He knew that letting them in might mean violence, but he was past worrying about that. He might end up in a cell. Or beaten up. He might end up dead.

He didn’t care.

And yet, despite that, he had not yet raised the glass to his lips.

The bartender was looking at him.

He glanced up at him. “What?”

“You okay?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“It’s just that you’ve had that for a couple of hours now.”

“Is that a problem?”

“My boss won’t be happy.”

“I paid the fee to sit down. If your boss has a problem, tell him to come and have it out with me.”

The bartender stayed where he was. He looked down at the chip that Milton was flipping between his fingers. “I don’t want to intrude—”

“So don’t.”

“—but I know what that is.”