Chapter 8

It’s a long walk, but I don’t mind. My head clears with every step, and when I close my door behind me—my place is blessedly silent—I feel almost sober.

No red light blinks on my answering machine as I pass it on my way to gulp down a gallon of water. I don’t look at it as I go to the bathroom, where I squeeze a huge dollop of toothpaste onto my brush and proceed to scrub away the revolting taste of the unknown guy from my mouth.Sunday, December 2, 1990. 1:25 A.M.

My head is pounding when I stumble into my apartment after my shift at the bar, and I groan. I had been unable to kill my hangover no matter how much water I’d downed all day.

“Never again,” I mutter as I peel out of my clothes and hurry into the shower to wash off the stink of smoke.