Harold stepped over the prone form of his daughter, stopping for a moment to check she still had a pulse. She might be sixteen years old and looked (and acted) twenty, but Lucy had not yet developed the taste for alcohol that she purported to. He glanced at the object her sleeping form was curled around: she would be having porcelain dreams tonight.
He fetched a blanket from her bed and tucked it around her. She would swear to him in the morning that she’d never touch alcohol again and mean it too. Harold would nod and smile remembering youth.