I nod. He’s right, of course. How pissed would I be to die at the Roundup from choking on something that’s not Esau’s tongue while he rummages around some other guy’s throat?
“You okay?” Nick—I knew it was in there somewhere—rubs circles on my back. My eyes are watery and it takes me a second to regain a breathing pattern that doesn’t involve gasping for air, but eventually I recover my composure. “It’s only eleven-thirty,” he says. “You don’t have to drink it all this minute.” He’s teasing. He pats my belly, stealing Gunther’s beer-receptacle reference. I smile. After a short series of normal-ish breaths, I take the pitcher back. I tug at it without further incident and make an effort—after another, involuntary, gawking glance across the patio—to tighten my focus on my business. On Nick,
