When he was first prescribed the pills, John had vowed to himself that he would be one hundred percent honest with his doctor about his level of pain and dependence on the drug. Now he knew that if he was honest about his progress at his next appointment, which was scheduled for the week they returned from Fripp Island, the prescribed dosage would almost certainly be scaled back. He was contemplating whether he wanted to delay the appointment.

John sent fresh oxygen directly to the base of his spine as he shifted in his seat and cruised toward the next hole at a slower pace. Gentle, gentle. He glanced Scott’s way to see if his pain had caused any alarm, but Scott was oblivious, staring vacantly out over the course and fingering the gold crucifix he wore around his neck.

John shifted again, absorbing the tension from his spine into his tailbone. Easy does it. He sipped his Scotch.

Their golf cart crapped out on the eleventh hole, coughing instead of moving when John hit the accelerator, then sputtering out altogether. John turned the thing off and removed the key, then tried to turn it back on, and the starter wouldn’t even turn over. John gave this a few more tries, with no success. He got out of his seat in order to look at the motor and belts.

“Scott, take the keys and give her one more go while I look inside to see if it’s something I can tinker with.”

Scott tried to start it up while John peered in. The volatile odor of hot rubber rippled through the air.

John said, “Reckon it’s either the battery or the alternator. Either way, we’re not gonna get her up and going on our own again, that’s for dang sure.”

Scott had gone through about a third of the bottle of Scotch by this point. His speech was baggy and he was not steady on his feet. He ran a hand through his hair, which was now slick with sweat over the crown of his head, and said indifferently, “What are we gonna do?”

“Probably just need to abandon the cart and walk back to the clubhouse to let them know.” John stared out over the sun-soaked fairway. It was a two-mile walk back to the clubhouse, and the temperature had to be pushing ninety. He glanced at Scott and said, “Why don’t you stay here in the shade, watch the clubs, and I’ll head back in.”

John welcomed the thought of a break from Scott’s company, even if it involved a long walk in the direct sun. In the past hour, Scott had gone from a merry, giggling drunk to a melancholic and unpredictable one. A few holes back, Scott had bungled a ten-inch putt, then smashed the head of his putter to the ground in anger and hissed something under his breath—John thought it might have been the C-word, which would have been both vile and bizarre—but he wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly and decided not to ask Scott to repeat himself or clarify.