Bright light beats against my head like a drum. I hold my palms to my temples, trying to hold my head together because surely it is in pieces. I have no idea how much I drank last night, but I’d say I got carried away. I remember playfully bandaging Dylan’s war wound and then dancing with him in the living room until dawn. I think shots of tequila might have been involved. I’m woozy at the mere thought of that liquor that starts with the letter T. This is one of those times I’m cursing myself for drinking so much and swear I’ll never do it again. My skull hurts. My body hurts. Everything hurts. Once my retinas regain their ability to focus, I note that I’m not in my hotel room. I’m lying in a giant bed covered with a soft, white comforter and fluffy pillows. There’s a folded piece of paper lying near my hip. Drink the water . . . Don’t leave . . . God, he’s bossy. I’d smile if it didn’t make my face hurt. The combination of a horrible hangover, sunlight practically blinding me, and the fact that it’s still before nine in the morning is kicking my ass.
