Stunned, I wait, not trusting my voice. Then I say, Good thing I won the fifth set, though, right?

He says nothing. Not because he disagrees or disapproves, but because he's crying. Faintly I hear my father sniffling, and I know he's proud, just incapable of expressing it. I can't fault the man for not knowing how to say what's in his heart. It's the family curse.

1997

I'm at my house in Las Vegas, watching TV with Slim, my assistant. I'm in a bad way. Gil Reyes's 12-year-old daughter, Kacey, who broke her neck in a snow-sledding accident, isn't doing well after surgery. Meanwhile, my wedding to Brooke Shields looms. I think all the time about postponing it, or calling it off, but I don't know how.

Slim is stressed too. He was with his girlfriend recently, he says, and the condom broke. Now she's late. He announces that there's only one thing to do. Get high.

He says, You want to get high with me?

On what?

Gack.

What the hell's gack?

Crystal meth.