Art doesn’t make it home that night, or the next five. I’m like an alcoholic, Art thinks. He’s heard reformed drunks talk about how they would drive to the liquor store, all the time swearing they weren’t going to go, then go in swearing they weren’t going to buy, then buy swearing they weren’t going to drink the booze they’d just bought. Then they’d drink it. I’m that guy, Art thinks, drawn toward Tío like a drunk to the bottle.
