42
“Hey roomie!”
Dale sat up straight, blinking. His brain sloshed in his skull.
Morning light slanted through narrow gaps in the curtain. Crud filled the corners of his eyes.
The voice cut through the door. “Roomie! You up?”
Deck. How late had the man stayed out? And how could someone sound so irrepressibly cheerful after a drunken binge?
Dale tried to answer, but coughed instead. His mouth tasted like a possum had died in there. Last week. He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”
“You up? Con starts in half an hour.”
Dale coughed. He’d somehow forgotten to set his alarm. No, not “somehow,” he knew perfectly well how he’d forgotten. He was lucky he’d remembered his room number. “Right.” His mouth felt painfully dry. “Uh, I’ll be a few minutes. You go.”
“Right-o.” Deck’s voice was loud enou
