Fresco woke up in his bed, his heavy wool blanket on the floor, sheets a sodden mess twisted around him. A massive headache took his head in its hands and squeezed so hard that when he rolled over his stomach rebelled and he threw up. He pressed his face into the stiff mattress when his nausea passed.
Thought I was done with this, he complained to himself. Why the hell am I still alive? He looked down at the floor, seeing a puddle faintly tinted blue. The skim of Wasteland was thin, more of a film over bile. And instead of being hit with a surge of longing as he always did at the sight of the drug, all he felt was revulsion.
It took him a while to get accustomed to the idea he would, in fact, live. At last, Fresco kicked himself out of bed. Getting moving helped his headache. By the time
