There was a part of Arthur — a large part of Arthur — that already regretted sitting down, because he was not at all prepared to navigate this conversation. He could have hidden out at Fitz's for at least a few more days without anyone knowing where to find him; he could have slinked home to Desdemona and maybe found a way to right the sinking boat of their marriage. He could have gone back to Ester's and spent another week underneath a haze of opiates. But he'd chosen to come here, instead, because his nerves were so paralyzing he could not stomach being alone, and because he remembered well enough from his spinouts at a younger age that he'd be unable to sleep tonight.

Ben's tone didn't make him feel better, although it didn't make him feel worse, either. Art glanced at Ben's finger pointed towards his beer, and then at his raised eyebrows — it took him a second to get it. "Oh," he said. Was it better or worse to throw a beer into his system when he was feeling like this? He couldn't remember. A beer wouldn't get him drunk or anything, though. Maybe it would even help to steady the shake in his hands.

"Um, sure," Art said, hoping his hypothesis was right.

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