Jack awoke to the smell of eggs and bacon.  He was still on the sofa, but sometime during the night Amber had propped his head with a soft pillow and covered him with a warm blanket.  While she busied herself in the kitchen, he sat up and scrubbed his head with both hands.  The freight train that ran over him last night left a throbbing headache as its only mark.  I didn’t drink that much.  What the hell?  He looked over at the serving cart, thinking, Maybe a little hair ‘o the dog...

Standing on wobbly legs, he walked to the cart and picked up a bottle of scotch.

“What are you doing?” Amber asked, knife in hand, a newly-sliced pineapple in front of her.

“I need a pick-me-up,” he said, reaching for a tumbler.

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