The sliding door is open and she seems to be fine listening to the roar of the wind, the hammer of rain, and the wailing ocean. She rocks peacefully while my overly affectionate pooch slurps her like he’s trying to get to the gooey center. How many licks will it take, Ulie? Meanwhile, Lauren Coeburn, former arch nemesis turned quivering mess, tells me to stop once I’ve poured her about four fingers’ worth of expensive scotch. In the tiniest way, I feel like I’m wasting it on her. However, it may be worth it because I’ve heard stories about the black-eyed children from all over the world; this is the first time I’ve actually had a chance to speak with someone who has seen them in the flesh. Lauren lifts the tumbler of scotch—no rocks—and drains it, which she then follows with two beckoning fingers. I’d like to tell her that she just guzzled about fifteen dollars. Instead, I pour her another, and she downs that one like she’s drinking a fraternity kid under the table.
