Dolan shook his head and stared hard at his old friend. “No, Donohue, you’re the stupid shit, if I ever saw one, and I’m not about to stand by anymore while you drink your life away.”
Dolan glared at his old friend, turned on his heels, and left without finishing his beer. Pat was stung and shocked. His best friend had never talked to him like that. He spun the events of the last day around in his head, growing more hostile toward PM and Dr. Potter as he did.
Pat spent the next four days in bed. He got up only to go to meals and use the toilet. He was too sick to work and did not visit his beloved Belgian draft horses, which he had combed down almost daily for years. Evenings, he walked to a bar just off the campus on Belfast Road, which led into Bath. He sat alone in a stupor and drank six whiskeys before the bartender cut him off. Finally, after a few evenings of this behavior, Pat fell off his bar stool and could not stand up. He lay on the floor, muttering curses and inanities.
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