It’s a motley crew—some droopy-eyed freshman, stoned out of his mind, with a cut on his hand, a screaming baby and an exhausted dad, and James Reid. At least one woman has noticed James and is whispering madly to her friend besides the fish tank. When James sees me, he stands up.“Are you okay?”“Just a sprain. Like you said,” I sigh. “And I might have a concussion so I’m not supposed to sleep or something. I don’t know. Tonight sucks.”“Can’t argue with that.”The woman by the fish tank has replaced her whispering with a new fun activity: staring openmouthed at me. She’s joined by the stoner boy, whose eyes are bugging out of his head. As we walk past, I whisper to him darkly: “But am I a girl in a chicken costume or a chicken in a girl costume?”“Oh, God,” he moans and drops his head into his hands.In the car, James says, “So you’re not supposed to sleep?”“I read somewhere that if you have a concussion and you go to sleep, you die. Like that.”
