Зима тревоги нашей

           Perhapsitisnaturalforamanwhohasdestroyedsomethingtotrytorestoreabalancebycreatingsomething.Butwasthatmyimpulse?

           IfumbledmywayintothestinkingkennelwhereDannyTaylorlived.AlightedcandleburnedinasaucerbesidehisArmycot.

           Dannywasinbadshape,blueandgauntandsick.Hisskinhadapewtersheen.Itwashardnottobesickatthesmellofthedirtyplaceandthedirtyman,underafilthycomforter.Hiseyeswereopenandglazed.Iexpectedhimtobabbleindelirium.ItwasashockwhenhespokeclearlyandinthetoneandmannerofDannyTaylor.

           "Whatdoyouwanthere,Eth?"

           "Iwanttohelpyou."

           "Youknowbetterthanthat."

           "You’resick."

           "ThinkIdon’tknowit?Iknowitbetterthananyone."HegropedbehindhiscotandbroughtoutabottleofOldForesterone-thirdfull."Haveashot?"

           "No,Danny.That’sexpensivewhisky."

           "Ihavefriends."

           "Whogaveittoyou?"

           "That’snoneofyourbusiness,Eth."Hetookadrinkandkeptitdown,butforamomentitwasnoteasy.Andthenhiscolorcameback.Helaughed."MyfriendwantedtotalkbusinessbutIfooledhim.Ipassedoutbeforehecouldgetitsaid.Hedidn’tknowhowlittleittakes.Doyouwanttotalkbusiness,Eth?’CauseIcanpassoutagainquick."

           "Doyouhaveanyfeelingaboutme,Danny?Anytrust?Any—well,feeling?"

           "SureIdo,butwhenitcomesrightdowntoitIamadrunk,andadrunkfeelsstrongestaboutliquor."