My hands smelled like puke and my feet hung over the edge of the bed. Lucas’ bed: he lay next to me, sleeping like a dog, or like one of Nelson’s sailors might have slept. Not awake, not really asleep, but in that dozing state where the sound of a cat on the roof or the drum beating To Quarters would cause one to snap to, eye boogers be damned. He’d been throwing up since midnight, every 15 to 20 minutes. He’d long since upchucked the solid contents of his stomach and was reduced to retching out a viscous yellow goo. He’d nibble on the pretzels and sip at the club soda, doze off, wake up, heave, repeat. It was now 2:30 in the morning.