“How do you feel? Better?” “That’s overstating it a bit,” she said. “Less awful, maybe. It would help if I had something for my headache,” she said, trying very hard to sound dignified. Rodriguez pulled a chair up to the bed, flipped it around, and straddled it, looking intensely at her as he leaned on the back rungs. “Do you know why you get those headaches?” “Yes, dammit,” said Kate. She set the bowl on the bedside table to lessen the temptation to smash it over his head. “I drink too much Scotch. Does that make you happy, you puritanical prig?” “I’d be willing to bet it’s from these things,” he said, patting his breast pocket. “You get a hangover from the pills—or from the pills and the Scotch together—and then you take more pills to get rid of it, and on and on and on.” “You a doctor or something? Or just psychic?” “No.
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