Dr. Hoo left it at that. Pat lay back in the bed as the doctor scribbled on his chart, then went about his rounds. Called out for what it really was, the pain in his side disappeared and was replaced with a dull, shameful loathing. Pat studied his lot with sad astonishment—he had put himself here. And he was taking a hospital bed away from someone who was seriously hurt. He cringed at his own pathetic behavior. He got out of the bed and started to put on his clothes. No one bothered with him as he walked out of the room, down the hall, and found a pay phone to call the house and ask Anne to come get him.

The storm passed, quick as it came. Nothing touched down on the Malone house or Hasty Liquor Store, but it came close—a twister had pinballed down the six lanes of the LBJ trench as hundreds in traffic ran to the underpasses for cover. Pat had been spared, the heat wave sundered, but major issues remained.

As Pat stepped slow and unsure to the car, he told Anne his appendix was fine and that he had pulled something. Hernia, sorry for the false alarm. Anne didn’t believe him. His own doctor, Landis, was affiliated with Medical City and would see the results, and the truth would come out. But Pat was wading through deeper shit than that. He was still shaking, his head throbbing. You are an alcoholic like your father. You put yourself in the hospital. Even with the air-conditioning on, he was sweating. You lay down next to a man literally dying from it. He hadn’t eaten all day. Thirsty too. An exhausted wreck. You have MS. He took off his hospital bracelet and stuffed it in his pocket. You’ll probably end up with cirrhosis too. You have enough problems. Stop adding to them. You have a wife and child to support.

For the first half of the drive home, Pat said nothing to Anne, who was seething quietly. You have to get your shit together. Christ, please. You have to quit. They drove down Forest Lane until the light stopped them at Midway. Anne turned to him and shook her head like there were no words for her despair. And then uttered feebly: “I just don’t know what’s going on.”

They stopped to pick up the Zephyr at the liquor store on Walnut Hill and drove the rest of the way separately. When they got home, the pain in Pat’s side came back and he was short of breath. He needed to lie down and made his way to the back of the house. Dan was there, at the door to his room.

“Hey, Danny boy. Crazy storm, huh?” Pat offered.