Daniel snorted. "No mulligans," he said. "This isn't mini-golf. There are real stakes here." Again he pointed a finger at her, but in his rising intoxication it appeared less accusatory than perhaps he had intended. This did not prevent him from glancing down at his empty glass as he reached for the third ball; he cast a sad look at it, as though pouting might refill it and get him back on the road to total drunkenness. This time he opted to ignore the 100-point marker, as it had only ever been a nuisance to him. He went instead for the 50-point circle. The ball bounced, circling the edge before dropping into the 40-point bin.