I squeeze my eyes shut, the realization hitting me like a fist. Of course. I hadn’t thought about that. I hadn’t been thinking much at all.

Typical Ana, a sober Kiki would say. Rushing headlong into things, guided by instinct and blessed by luck.

But this Kiki is anything but sober.

“What?” Somehow, she manages to stretch the word into three distinct syllables. With her eyes on me, she reaches for her discarded cup. Gazing into its depths, she frowns when she notices its empty. “Someone drank my ale.” She chucks the cup over her shoulder and thrusts her hand out to steal mine, the back of her knuckles rapping the rim, knocking it straight to the floor. “Dammit.” She waves her arms in the air and shouts, “Santiago! More ale!”

I grab her hands and yank her arms down. “No. No more ale for you.”

Anger flashes through her eyes, but it’s not her usual sort. This anger is messy. Unfocused. It’s the rage of an animal being backed into a corner, knowing it’s going to have to fight to get what it wants. “What crawled up your ass?”

It’s something I would say. Not Kiki.

“We have to go back to Esmeralda’s, remember? To talk to Rosalita?”

“Fuck Esmeralda. And fuck Rosalita.”

I flinch, dropping her hand as if burned. Kiki doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

“Maybe if my brother hadn’t met her, he’d still be alive. Maybe he was killed because—because—”

“Don’t.” I have heard enough. Misery makes you unwise. I know that. But I will not allow Kiki to walk—or stumble—down this road. “You know this isn’t her fault.”

Kiki shrugs, a sloppy version of her normal, artful gesture. “Don’t know anything. Couldn’t talk to her.” She glances around as if wondering where all the ale has gone.

“And at the rate you’re drinking,” I say, “you’ll pass out before we get the chance.”

“Never pegged you for a … for a…”

Whatever insult she seems to want to lob at me hovers just out of her reach. Works for me. It would be nice if she didn’t say anything we’d both regret.

She shakes herself, waves a hand as if batting away the words that won’t obey her slurred speech. “Seems awfully hicoprytic—hicorotici—hypocritical. Of you, specifal—specifically.”

Lord have mercy. I never should have brought her here. I stand, reaching for her arm. “We’re going back home. It was a mistake coming out tonight.”

She jerks her arm out of my grasp. “You drink all the time. You think I didn’t notice?” The anger makes her words sharper, more lucid. “You think I didn’t hear you skulking about to drown your own sorrows? Why must mine be made to swim?”