Art had a sense that maybe he hadn't described what he meant the way he meant to; this was no surprise, seeing as he was coming down from having been strung out on laudanum for almost a week.

There wasn't that much space between his simile and the excuses laudanum addicts conjured for their behavior, and sometimes Art thought it was just luck that had him landing on gambling instead of a drug. He'd found gambling first and the habit set up a home in his brain and insisted that he come back to it, and he was lucky because it wouldn't kill him, not like liquor and opium killed people. It just made him do things like — bet on a house and lose a whole fortune and probably lose his wife and daughter, too.

He bit down on his thumbnail while he waited for Ben to say something and released it only when he finished, with a question. And Art didn't know if he was filled up now, didn't know if the gaping need in his chest would be there when he came down from the laudanum or not — except he did know, didn't he. He knew because he had tried this before.

"Not really," Art said, with a hollow laugh. In a rush, he added, "Which means I've fucked up my whole life for no good reason, doesn't it? I just — when I start it, I can't stop. And I thought I was different now but I'm not."

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