“Rum?” Alfie raised the bottle he kept in his hammock — he always had a bottle — but Flora shook him off. She fought back the anger that burned in her throat. She had seen what the drink did to him, and it was a road she didn’t care to follow him down. She’d tried to love him out of it, nagging and begging and pleading with him. But there was nothing she could do, and she’d long since lost the energy to fight the currents so bent on drowning him. It didn’t make it stop hurting to watch, though. It never stopped hurting.
