The four of them kept drinking until midnight. Adam Bolton started to get emotional and drank a bit too much, but he was still relatively clear-headed. As they were leaving, Brian Foster stretched out his hand and gestured in front of Adam Bolton. Adam Bolton knew he was asking if the bet they made before drinking still counted. Adam Bolton grinned, shifted his body to the side, waved at Sophie Carter and Emily Bolton behind him, but then bumped his head right into the glass door in front of him. The tempered glass was sturdy, and Adam Bolton landed on his butt. The bar patrons burst into laughter at the loud bang. Adam Bolton stared blankly at the people inside the bar and slurred, “What are you laughing at?” He tried to push himself up, but his legs gave out and he ended up sprawled on the floor.

“He’s had too much. What he just said was true—he always drinks too much when he gets emotional,” Brian Foster said, hooking his arm under Adam Bolton’s body like dragging a corpse, pulling him out of the bar. He told Grace Bennett, “I’ll take him home. You two take a cab, or he’ll end up puking all over you. Help me hold him up for a second…”

Brian Foster handed Adam Bolton’s dead weight to the two women, then took out his car keys to open the car door.

“Where is this?” Adam Bolton lifted his head, his drunken eyes unfocused, staring almost right at Emily Bolton’s face. “Who are you?” He waved his hand, seemingly by accident, but with a loud “smack,” he hit Emily Bolton across the face. “Get lost, I never hire prostitutes…” Emily Bolton was stunned by the slap, her grip loosened, and before Adam Bolton could finish his sentence, he lost his support, his head slammed into the car window with a loud bang, and he landed on his butt again. This time, he didn’t stay upright, slumping onto the concrete, motionless.

“Are you okay?” Brian Foster was startled and hurried over to apologize. “This idiot’s just drunk, he really thought you were a prostitute. When he sobers up, I’ll make sure he apologizes to you.” Flustered, Brian Foster stuffed the dead-drunk Adam Bolton into the car. Halfway through the drive, he suddenly felt a hand scratching the back of his neck. Startled, he turned around to see Adam Bolton sitting there, not looking drunk at all: “Five times at Shengshi Nianhua, including the cost of hiring a prostitute. Get ready to go bankrupt.”

“Damn, you really went all out.”

“That’s called winning by surprise.” Adam Bolton grinned smugly, switched places with Brian Foster, drove him to the company dorm, and by the time he got back to his own dump, it was almost 1 a.m. The city was shrouded in the silence of night. Adam Bolton turned on his computer’s music player, clicked on “Bossanovababy,” took a beer from the fridge, and, to the raspy voice of Elvis, swayed gently to the beat. He was halfway through his beer when the phone rang. He answered—it was his mother’s voice: “What’s going on? It’s almost one. Why are you calling so late?”

“Your dad’s playing cards, I’m keeping him company. I’m bored anyway, just wanted to see how late my son would come back to his dump.”

“You’re crazy. Just keep an eye on Dad, and tell him not to stay up all night playing cards. Does he really think his body can keep up with his son?”

“If only your dad would listen to me…”

Listening to his mother sigh on the other end, Adam Bolton felt a wave of sadness—not anger at his father’s gambling, but sorrow at his father’s fate. Adam Bolton thought: If it weren’t for that wrongful imprisonment fourteen years ago, Dad might have become a mayor or party secretary somewhere. How could he have ended up a gambler?

Fourteen years ago, when the truth about the case of Haizhou’s party secretary William Grant framing deputy mayor Henry Harris came out, it shocked the whole country. Back then, Adam Bolton’s father, Chris Bolton, was deputy secretary-general of the Haizhou city government, promoted by executive deputy mayor Henry Harris. Before becoming deputy secretary-general, he had been Henry Harris’s secretary for quite a long time. When Henry Harris was framed, he had someone tell Chris Bolton to lay low for a while. Unexpectedly, as soon as Chris Bolton left Haizhou, it was seen as fleeing out of guilt, and became further “evidence” of Henry Harris’s supposed crimes. Years later, when the wrongful conviction was overturned, Henry Harris, whose spirit was nearly broken, couldn’t even remember he’d sent someone to warn Chris Bolton. Naturally, Chris Bolton’s escape was seen by everyone as the most shameful betrayal.

Chris Bolton had been clever all his life, but was ruined by the messenger, never able to clear his name. The bitterness ate away at him, and before he was even fifty, his hair had turned white. In recent years, he’d worn down his will at the card table. Being extremely smart, Chris Bolton excelled at any game he played, and before long, hardly any neighbors were willing to play cards with him anymore.

Adam Bolton understood the bitterness in his father’s heart. It was true his father rarely lost, but all the money he won over the years had been turned into remittance slips for donations to children who couldn’t afford school. His father wasn’t addicted to gambling—he just used it as a way to express his feelings. That was why Adam Bolton felt his father’s fate was so unfair.

Adam Bolton hung up, finished his beer, opened the window, and tossed the can from the twentieth floor, praying solemnly, “Damn God, please let it hit that damn BMW I’ve always hated.” A moment later, there was a dull thud as the can landed on the concrete. Adam Bolton gave up the idea of smashing the car with a hammer, thought about having a smoke, but when he checked his pockets, he remembered Brian Foster had swiped his cigarettes at the bar. He hesitated about going downstairs to buy more, but then thought of the acne-covered girl at the Sujie convenience store and immediately gave up on the idea. He quickly washed up and got into bed, sat at the head of the bed with a book, and soon stayed up reading until 2 a.m. before finally going to sleep.