The next morning having drunk enough bourbon the night before to finally calm down and get himself to sleep, John opened his eyes to an empty bed and a blistering hangover. He slipped on a robe and slippers and stumbled downstairs to find Amy already in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs. The smell of the food nearly made him lose whatever was in his stomach and he went to the front door, opened it, and stood in the morning wind, shivering, and sucking in breaths of sea-scented air and telling himself he had to quit hammering the booze.
When the wave of nausea passed, he stooped down and picked up that morning’s copies of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and The Washington Post and brought them inside.
He took the papers out of their plastic bags and scanned the front pages
