Malibu cracked her eyes. It was early in the morning, just past sunrise, which she surmised by the gentle sunlight seeping around the edges of window curtains and into the room. She felt an urge to throw up, but pushed it down. Her head ached and her temples throbbed. So the alcohol had hit her after all. She reclosed her eyelids, but the throbbing did not stop.
Where was she?
Despite the throbbing, she opened her eyes and looked around. She was in a bedroom. There was one window. Pressed against a wall was a dresser of drawers, on top of which was what looked like a sack full of shekels. Also pressed against the wall was a wooden chair. Draped across its backrest was a robe, and on the seat, neatly folded, were the clothes Malibu had worn the night before.
Malibu’s head rested on a pil
