“Clifford takin’ drugs! CLIFF? Do you know what my self-righteous son of blessed memory, my self-righteous son, he of the completely unaltered states, did to me because of my indulgences?” “No, sir,” Anne replied. “Don’t call me sir!” he fumed. Anne said nothing. She didn’t want to trigger another explosion. Starkey flicked the cigarette out the window then took Anne’s small, graceful hands in his large, bony paws. He was long-fingered, with octave-spanning hands like his son; his skin was dry and papery, his grip light and almost fragile. “He had me committed! Twice! Thrown into the psych ward. Under lock and key for seventy-two hours with the white coats hemming and hawing about my destructive tendencies.” He let go and leaned back into his seat with a tremor of spent energy.