Don Juan flexed his foot idly as Griffith took it in his hand. There was indeed glass stuck in his foot, bedded in deeply. He'd cut himself and then driven it in further by continuing to walk. It was impossible to be alarmed by this. He had died tonight; what should worry him about a cut? He felt Griffith's fingers on his skin, tingling as they moved. He turned his gaze to the water again. It was still running. If they let it go much longer it would overflow the sides of the tub and spill out across the floor. The rest of the glass would be swept away into corners; the rug in the hallway would be ruined with mold.

"Are you going to patch me up? How delightfully domestic," he said. The second sentence was like an inside joke meant only for his own benefit, but even he was having trouble grasping what he'd meant by saying it. He ran the backs of his fingers over the surface of the water and wondered if it was hot enough to burn his skin. It seemed right that he should come out the other side of tonight with some scars. Wounds on his feet and blisters on his fingers. He shouldn't have let Griffith give him more after they'd sobered up, he knew. He shouldn't have asked for it. A day of withdrawal should have been his penance for his sins tonight, but he'd skirted it — or at least delayed it — so something else ought to stand in for it.

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