“His eyelids felt glued shut, and his mouth was so dry that for a moment he panicked, fighting for breath. Then, slowly, bit by bit, he peeled his eyes open to a painful squint and propped himself up on his elbows. It wasn’t a rumbling eighteen-wheeler he heard, but the roar of the surf outside his bedroom window. And he wasn’t sick, but hung over. Same difference. With a groan, he pushed the covers away and sat up. In college, he used to consider head-banging debauchery liberating. ...Amusing, even. Not anymore. He groped for his glasses, found a pair of frayed, cutoff blue jeans and put them on, then staggered to the bathroom to brush his teeth before his mouth was declared a biohazard. The picture in the mirror of the medicine cabinet made him groan. Beard stubble, bloodshot eyes, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. He shuddered and opened the cabinet to make the reflection go away.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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