He smiled up at her. A smile she now knew was a mask, an empty façade. A habit he’d acquired and hadn’t lost yet, like an amputee trying to scratch at the leg that isn’t there anymore. "The street doc who turned me on to these things said they were habituating," he said quietly. "Just habituating. I found out later they’re physically addictive. More addictive than heroin, than nicotine, than cram. . . . No, Sly, I can't stop. And I wouldn’t want to if I could.