The drink is the color of strawberry Kool-Aid.

　“What is it?” I take a sip. It tastes like 7-Up.

　Mia smiles an evil little smile. “It’s something I invented. You want to get smashed, this is the express train.”

　“Oh. Well, thank you.” I toast her, and drink up. A sensation of heat and total well-being floods me. “Heavens. Mia, you ought to patent this. You could have little lemonade stands all over Chicago and sell it in Dixie cups. You’d be a millionaire.”

　“Another?”

　“Sure.”

　As a promising junior partner in DeTamble & DeTamble, Alcoholics at Large, I have not yet found the outer limit in my ability to consume liquor. A few drinks later, Mia is peering at me across the bar with concern.

　“Henry?”

　“Yeah?”

　“I’m cutting you off.” This is probably a good idea. I try to nod my agreement with Mia, but it’s too much effort. Instead, I slide slowly, almost gracefully, to the floor.

　I wake up much later at Mercy Hospital. Mia is sitting next to my bed. Her mascara has run all over her face. I’m hooked up to an IV and I feel bad. Very bad. In fact, every kind of bad. I turn my head and retch into a basin. Mia reaches over and wipes my mouth.

　“Henry—” Mia is whispering.

　“Hey. What the hell.”

　“Henry, I’m so sorry—”

　“Not your fault. What happened?”

　“You passed out and I did the math—how much do you weigh?”

　“175.”

　“Jesus. Did you eat dinner?”