She was pouring a second shot of rum as he spoke. His tone was so devoid of feeling that she did not understand.
"You'd better be back by seven; Frank will be in tonight."
"I'm not worrying about Frank."
"What is it, Bud? Hangover?"
"I'm not 'Bud,'" he said, "and I'm walking out—on Frank, on Jack and on you."
"You—haw—" she swallowed the liquor, "where could you go?"
"It doesn't matter."
She sat up in bed. "What's got under your skin? Don't you get enough?"
He leaned toward her and took her hand.
"I've had it easy all my life. I've been soft. I want to go on my own."
She wrenched her hand from his grasp. "You'll stay where you are," she said firmly.
"I'm plenty strong," he said. "And awake. This morning is Easter—I went to a little Mexican church back of the town—"
"You listened to a lotta guff about Jesus and fell for it."
"I couldn't understand a word of it. But I did come to. For the first time in ages I'm conscious."
"I'll bet it hurts. Don't feel, boy. Don't think—or talk."
"I gotta. I've put some money away. Nita, I want to get away from here. I gotta."
"Not much—you can't take it on the lam."
"I'm not running away. I'm a free man."
"Free? Who told you so? You're a slave. I've paid plenty
