The casino was at war. Mary Ann saw it now. Everywhere she looked, workers in Positano uniforms were putting their job on the line by performing highly specialized, imperceptible acts of sabotage. Erica knew all of their names. Wraith-thin, mustachioed Ultimate Texas Hold’em dealers “inadvertently” lifted the corner of one of their hole cards just a little too much, hoping the player to their left would be smart enough to use the information to their advantage. Bartenders laced the drinks of the most unrestrained losing players with chamomile and herbs (and, Mary Ann hoped, nothing else). There was an electricity in the air, a current buzzing over the casino’s perpetual background swoosh.

And she was part of it. It was her energy too. The one she’d been feeling ever since Aunt Karen’s incident, the spontaneous, effortless drive toward others and away from herself and her obsessions. She’d traded in her personal hunger for social anger. In just a few weeks, the energy had won her a new friendship, filled her weekly schedule, given her something real to look forward to for the first time in years. She went out to East Fremont with Erica. She studied Hi/Lo counting on obscure probability theory papers, then settled for Wikipedia. She listened to visitors’ stories of lost loves, lost jobs, found fortunes, exotic travels. Las Vegas is a city of stories. She could be part of it. She could help.