“Ah . . . yeah. Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are. But—” Anger lashed into the woman’s voice. “Your own father is dying. I thought you might like to know. I thought you might like a chance to say good-bye. But if you don’t the hell care, if you think sitting in some Cuban bar—” “Florida. I’m in Florida.” “Whatever. Wherever you’re wallowing in your own self-pity, drinking yourself into a stupor every night is not going to bring your family back to you. You’re no survivor, you know that? You know dick about surviving. All you know is your own narcissistic pursuit.”
