The work I had done at the agency, important, creative work. There was my layout, the rough of the people with short, slim glasses, the parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the American Tradition.
All of it lying here to rot.
Something made me look away from that terrible trash.
Sergeant stood in the entrance of Milady's, something bright in his hand.
Something happened.
I had been wrong.
The shining instrument had not been a hypodermic needle.
"You're tough," Sergeant said as I eased back into focus.
"You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust.