Of course she’d known that Keith Barry was a junky, that he’d been shooting smack since high school, but no idea that she would wind up falling for him ass over tits. Just that he could do things with his guitar that left her speechless, could pull sounds from the strings that left her crying like a goddamned old woman, like the child she spent so much time trying to forget she’d ever been.

“Will you please just tell me what you’re talking about, Mort?”

“Keith told me this morning that he’s sublet this place to some guys in another band.” Mort had stopped fussing with the wing nut, sat very still now and stared up at the ceiling, past the ceiling to some invisible point beyond.

And the old anger swept over her, then, hot and immediate and utterly devoid of focus, as perfectly indifferent to who it hurt as Keith’s addiction. The small voice, silly, timid whimper that always made her think of some milksop’s cartoon excuse for a conscience, ivory white and angel wings flitting around her head and shoulders, the voice that raised its hand politely, that begged her to think first. But Mort was convenient, Mort was here and now, and the hurting words were already slipping across her lips.

“Jesus Howlin’ Christ, Mort. Fuck! Do you just sit around with your thumb up your ass while he’s out pulling this shit?”

“Hey, Daria,” Theo said, rising up slowly from her nest in the La-Z-Boy, “Don’t think you’re gonna take this one out on Mort. It’s not his fault your boyfriend’s a piss-for-brains junky.”

“It’s all right, Theo. She’s just mad-”