“Lessee--let’s see.” He was becoming less eloquent; less refined. “How’s about—how about—a riddle. Yes, let’s. I am four times as old as my daughter. In twenty years’ time, I shall be twice as old as her. How old are we now?” Fletcher scrunched his nose. “But tha’s—that’s—not right. I don’t have a daughter, and if I did—I wouldn’t…” 'You seem tense. How’s about ye give me control for a bit, while ye get some well-deserved rest, eh? I promise I ain’t gonna cause no trouble no how. ‘Sides, Alice-dear ‘as lived a nice, long life, asn’t she?' “I can’t do that… she’s still a young girl. She’s got more to live for, doesn’t she?” 'And how’s about ye? Yer piss-drunk twenty-three hours o’the day, an’ for what? So she can take advantage o’ye like the little bint she is?' “You’d do kindly to remain silent, you wretch, you.” He was speaking to nothing; no one, even. He was, though—at least, that was his belief. “Alice, please…” His inner-dialogue interrupted by Alice’s arrival, her arrival prompted a sincere smile, his half-gloved hand reaching toward her hopefully. “Oh, Alice…” Taking the large glass bottle from her hand, he swiftly unscrewed the cap and raised it to his lips, beginning to down the liquor and treating it as if it were a teacup of cold juice. Ignoring the burning sensation that sunk into the pit of his stomach, he’d stop at about halfway before lowering the bottle and licking the corners of his lips. 'Yer gon—need more—alco—‘an that to—' The voice was becoming less present within his mind, prompting a sigh. Swaying slightly, Fletcher would watch Alice through half-lidded eyes before dropping to his knees abruptly and leaning forward, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Just in time, Alice—you were just in time.”