* * * *
Jake had walked for hours. He wasn’t drunk anymore—he’d been moving too long for that. The alcohol had only blurred the edges anyway; it hadn’t blunted anything. All he had left was exhaustion and the barbed ache of a hangover, but the sick feeling inside him had nothing to do with either of those things.
Last call in Toronto was two A.M. After that he’d walked on the Danforth until he hit the first cross street. He picked a direction at random and then followed it until the next cross street. He’d turned randomly there, too, and then at the next cross street again and on and on, barely registering where he was going.