During the entire time Ty Dorsey did not see or hear from Olivia Taft. He did not “raise funds,” did not expand his portfolio. Being sick dropped his resistance. The blisters and burning returned and added to his misery, pain, and self-imposed incarceration in that home on the fourteenth tee. Slowly it subsided. He fought the desire, the need for speedballs. He locked his “works” away but needed it, had to have it. He wrapped his “works” in plastic, put it in the freezer so that when he needed it, it would be uncomfortable. He smoked grass, smoked skag-laced Kools, snorted coke. Anything to stay away from the wonderful feel of the needle, the conditioned pleasure now so tightly locked in his mind that the very touch of the kit bag sent waves of joy trembling throughout his body. Slowly he
