We were supposed to have dinner with his college roommate and his roommate's wife. I'd made a reservation at 7:30. At 7:42, I was sitting alone at a table for four, staring at a glass of water going warm in my hand, pretending to read a menu I'd already memorized. His roommate Kevin called at 7:55 to apologize — Noah had stopped by the bar across the street for "a quick one" and hadn't made it past the second round. I paid for my water. I drove home in silence. And when Noah finally came through the door at nearly eleven, tripping over his own shoes, I was already past the anger. I was in the quieter, uglier place that anger becomes after it's exhausted itself. The place where you start saying things you've been rehearsing for months without realizing. I told him his drinking had turned him into someone his mother would not have recognized. And then I went further.