In the morning, I wake with a hangover in an unfamiliar bed. Light streams through drawn blinds and brightens the darkness behind my closed eyes. I open one, tentative, and don’t recognize the room I’m in. There’s a Papasan chair in one corner on which my clothing is folded up neatly. There’s a dresser made of battered wood in a chipped varnish. There are photos in frames on the walls, pictures I vaguely recall from high school—Dave and me goofing off on a football field, Dave mugging for the camera in the chemistry lab, the two of us in the lunch room. Julia had been a photographer for the yearbook senior year. I’d never seen these images before, but I can tell at a glance she took them.
My head throbs. I groan and bury my face into my pillow as I massage my temples. Jesus, what happened
