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Max Fisher opened his eyes, looked at the blurry mess around him, thought, Where the fuck am I? He managed to turn his head, stare at a wall. It was a white wall. The walls in his apartment were white-okay, he was probably home. What day was it? He thought it was Monday because yesterday was Sunday, right? Didn’t he see a football game on TV, at the bar he was drinking at? Or was that two days ago? Wait, it wasn’t football, it was baseball. It was July for Christ’s sake. The Fourth was just, what, last week? He remembered loud noises, explosions, fireworks. Yeah, it definitely wasn’t football season.

He rolled over toward the night table, misjudged it, fell onto the floor. Right on his hip. Must’ve been a bad fall because the pain killed even though he was still smashed.

“Aw, Christ,” he said, wincing, tasting vomit.

He stayed like that for a long time, might’ve passed out, then managed to struggle to his knees. The pain in his hip was excruciating, but he figured if he’d broken something he wouldn’t be able to move.

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