One minute she was walking past reception, the next she was downstairs in the casino watching other people play blackjack. Before she realized what she was doing, she was caressing the felt table and praying she didn’t go over twenty-one. Ten minutes later, after losing her first fifty, she was sipping a screwdriver to calm her nerves—forgetting she didn’t usually drink until nightfall. There wasn’t any natural lighting in the casino, giving her the impression of unending night, unending day. She didn’t lose it all at the blackjack table. That would’ve been stupid. No, she decided to scale back her risk by trying a few slots. Hit the button, lose. Hit the button, lose. Hit the button, win. The joy was crack. She poured her winnings into the machine to taste it again. God knows how long she would’ve sat there or how much of her nest egg she would’ve poured into the casino’s black heart if Sly hadn’t rescued her.
