“She didn’t have anyone else. But then… but then I tried to get it straightened out and there was a mistake along the way and it was probably my fault, and now…” He paused just in time to stop from telling a complete stranger what had happened. “And now things are worse than they were before. And the funny thing is, it’s not the first time that’s happened. I’ve tried to help others before. Thought I was getting better at it. Turns out I’m not—I’m getting worse. That’s always been how I’ve tried to make amends. And now, once I’ve got it through my thick head that it doesn’t work, I’m finding it hard to think of a reason why I shouldn’t drink.”

“Can I tell you my story?” Daitaro rested his elbows on the bar; it was obvious that he was going to give Milton the benefit of whatever was on his mind no matter what Milton said, so he just shrugged his indifference. “Look.” He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He flipped it open and laid it out on the bar between them, then tapped his finger against a photograph in a clear plastic panel. “That’s my boy.”

Milton couldn’t help himself. He looked down and saw a child, no more than six or seven, dressed in a white karate do-gi, the suit bound by a green belt. The boy was in a fighting pose, his arms raised, and was smiling at the person behind the camera.

“His name’s Kenji. He’s six. Big into karate. His mother died last year. Diagnosed in January, dead by March. Breast cancer. I tell myself that was the time I started drinking, but, in truth, I’d been drinking for years. I couldn’t go out now that I was alone with Kenji, so I started drinking at home. There was this one time, a couple of months ago, when I got him to bed and he fell asleep earlier than usual. I was always drinking in the evenings, but I’d had a difficult call with the insurers dealing with Yui’s life policy and I thought I’d do it properly. You know—go to town on it. I worked out afterwards that I’d had almost two bottles of sake.”

Milton looked up. “Afterwards? What happened?”

A flicker of pain passed across the bartender’s face. “I used to smoke, too. Spliffs. I lit one and left it in an ashtray on the side of the sofa. I fell asleep with it there and it must have fallen down. When I woke up, the room was on fire. I managed to get Kenji out, thank God, but we lost everything. The house. All our stuff. He had a teddy that my wife made for him when she was sick—gone.”