"I was your mother once," Dante told him with an air of great drunken magnanimity one evening.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her tobac tin, more to annoy her visitor than anything else.
Dante took the seat next to the bed, and handed a mug of tea to Trisha.
She paced the wide, marble floor, visited each of the soaring windows, feeling every supple sinew beneath her skin move with the perfection of the young.
Sometimes, he prays that the hand will come down and Ed will tell him gently they are done, they are going to quit, end the nightmare before it worsens.