Don Juan fell into a steady rhythm next to Hudson. True to his word, he didn't say anything, even when Dean swayed left far enough that his shoulder nearly brushed into Don Juan's and he had to halt his progress briefly and wait for him to veer back onto course. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head forward, though he watched Hudson from the corner of his eye. The question he kept turning over in his mind was one of intention, and sequencing. The facts: Hudson had come to his club, seen him there, and was stumbling drunk. The questions: prior to arriving at the club had Hudson been hoping to see Don Juan? Dreading it? Was it possible that seeing Don Juan at the card table had caught him by surprise? And then the second question: how much had Hudson had to drink before he first noticed Don Juan, and how much after? How much of the alcohol in his blood at the moment was, in a roundabout way, Don Juan's fault?

The cobblestones grew uneven. Hudson's foot caught, and he stumbled. Don Juan stepped in close, grabbed his arm. He held his breath, though he couldn't have said why — maybe just something about being close to Hudson again. He smelled of whiskey, covering his usual cologne.

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