Beckett’s POV
An hour later, and the kid’s party is a distant memory in the corner of my mind, and the lounge has settled into a quiet, shadowy stillness. The high energy lighting has been cut, leaving only the low, ambient glow of wall fixtures and the electric blue strip lighting beneath the bar counter. Outside the thick glass windows, the ocean is a pitch black expanse, the subtle, rhythmic sloshing of the waves against the ship's hull acting as a muted soundtrack to our steady, relentless drinking.
Murphy is well past his limit. He is slumped over the dark mahogany counter, clutching his glass with both hands as if it is the only anchor keeping him from slipping off his stool. His speech has turned thick and heavily slurred, his gestures wide and uncoordinated as he drags out a thou
