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Chris Gallagher stirred awake. His face hot and sticky against the pillow. He didn't remember much from the night before. Nor did he remember climbing into his tent for the night.
He did remember whisky, beer, singing and the best barbecued steak he'd tasted in years.
He pushed himself up off the foam mattress, feeling like a car crash. His brain pounded against his skull. His stomach turned with a sickly feeling. The tent was hot and the air foul. He looked himself up and down. He'd managed to open the buttons on his shirt, but hadn't made it out of the shirt itself. One trouser leg was still on, the other was off, with work boots still laced up on his feet. An empty whisky bottle lay on its side next to the sleeping bag. Gallagher checked his watch. "Ah s**t," he said, voice croak
