"And," said Samuel, "is it destroying you yet?"

He leaned his warm forehead against the wooden spire that was part of the bed's footboard. Would it do any good to tell him that it was not too late? There was something about this kind of trite advice that Sam was contemptuous of. It might in fact be already too late for Don Juan, or he might have many years left where nothing too serious would happen to him. He was born wealthy and no one seemed to depend on him, Sam thought morosely. A type like that could keep going forever—long after his youth was all but faded. He would arrive in the prison of his failing, swollen flesh in steady tiny increments—but so might anybody, if they were unlucky.

Samuel's own body reminded him that he had done something to it, by dropping his heart rate. He started feeling a fog settle over him and he stood up, to make it scatter. It was better to stay on his feet, if he did not want the invigorating first effects to wear off too quickly.

He put his hands in his pockets and watched Don Juan do up the last of the buttons of Samuel's shirt, that he was now wearing.

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