“You wouldn’t think of saving me a drag, would you, on that cigarette?” She looked at him, taking in the question. “Hate to ask,” he said. She looked at him, taking in the damp shirt and scuffed dungarees, the way he held the crate at belly level, forearms veined beneath the rolled sleeves. “One drag could mean the difference,” he said, “between life and death.” She said, “In which direction?” He smiled and looked away. Then he looked at her and said, “When you need a smoke, does it matter?”
