Ash was waiting, when Lowbeer’s car’s door slid open. She reached in, took his wrist, pressed her Medici’s softness against it with her other hand, and drew him out, his feet with difficulty finding Notting Hill pavement. “Bed rest,” advised Lowbeer, briskly, as the door closed, “moderate sedation.” “Goodbye,” Netherton said, “goodbye forever.”
Ummm... We're70 years in the future. Wouldn't someone have worked up a way to prevent people becoming alcoholics or cured of them of the disorder by then?
