Back in his own home, Don eyed the bottle of Bourbon with distrust.
He’d run blindly for the stairs, left Michael’s building, and hailed the first cab that passed, almost too incoherent to give the driver his address. When he’d reached his apartment, the bottle of Bourbon (do not drink only water, but take a little wine for your health, he’d quoted to himself with an edge of hysteria) had seemed like a lifesaver.
Two glasses in and already the memory of Michael’s transformation was fading as his logical mind tried to convince him that he could not have seen what he had seen.
What kind of Christian was he, who was given so clear a sign and yet did not believe?
His sleep that night was restless, and he woke the next morning groggy and unrefreshed. Don hadn’t realized how much he hated Sa
