My dad has one-fourth of his drink left. He’s fixated on it—or maybe I am. He’s almost going to finish it off, and I can’t keep speculating. On impulse, I step forward and steal the glass from him. He cocks his head at me like really, son? I sniff the liquid, just smelling lime, but I see carbonation bubbles. Gin and tonic? And then Jonathan Hale, with his graying sideburns, narrows his deadly eyes and gives me a single dark look: drink it, son. If you don’t fucking trust me. I go cold, put the rim of the glass to my lips— “Lo!” Ryke yells, his hand clamping on my shoulder, about to tear the
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LOREN. WHY WOULD YOU DRINK IT. WHAT IF IT WAS ALCOHOL.
