When Alan woke up, the house was so quiet that it occurred to him that it must be Saturday. Or something like that. As long as there was something like a Saturday or any other day off from school that wasn't Saturday. His stomach was still trying to somersault every now and then, and there was something like a huge lump of cement in his head, and he had to go to great lengths to stay lying down on his elbows. Jesus, what was it that darkened in the paper basket by his bed? He couldn't remember throwing up at night, but the evidence spoke for itself. He had to clean it up as soon as possible before his parents came in. He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, caught his balance for a moment, then gripped the small plastic basket with one hand and carefully opened the door with the other. There was no one in the corridor. So he slipped in front of the wide-open bedroom door, first sisters, then parents, tiptoed into the bathroom and quietly locked the door behind him. He emptied the toilet basket, rinsed it in the shower, and only then looked into the mirror at his dark circles and red eyes. He finally knew what an 18-year-old with a hangover looked like. It was not a pleasant sight. He could barely remember what Will had given him the night before to try and what he had stolen from his parents' bar earlier. First they drained a few cans of beer, then they drank vodka and gin, and finally finished the already open bottle of red wine. He, in turn, promised to bring some rum from his father's stocks, but chickened out at the end of the party. Something hit him suddenly. Something to do with open bedrooms. He washed his face with cold water and dried it with a towel, taking a few deep breaths, gathering all the courage in case his father was waiting for him right outside the door.
But he didn't wait.