Chapter Seven
I wake up on the floor of the Time Machine casino with no memory of how I managed to drag myself there, or whether somebody carried me.
“Stronger than you’re used to?” a partially familiar voice asks from somewhere above me.
“Huh?”
“The gelatin shots,” she says. “They sneak up on you.”
The face of the Atlantic Coast bartender swims into painfully bright focus as she reaches down to help me up.
“Oh,” I say. “I guess so. What time is it?”
“Sorry,” she answers the way all the casino attendants are trained to. “Don’t have my tab on me.”
Once I’m on my feet, I search my pack to make sure nothing important is missing, and check my own tablet.
It’s thirty-three o’clock in the morning. The third day.
“You going to be okay?” the bartender asks as I wander off down one of the
