‘Don’t forget to release the silver catch at the top of the rope,’ Jeff shouts from the bedroom.

‘It’s after twelve, Jeff. We’re late,’ I say, coming out of the bathroom, relieved I buried the evidence.

‘Okay, give me a minute,’ Jeff goes to the bathroom arriving back after a few minutes. If he knows what went on in that room last night, he’s choosing not to mention it.

‘This is not going to be easy,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember the last time I felt so bad.’

‘Take these,’ I say, handing him two Advil.

Twenty minutes later we are on our way to Algiers, ready to bulldoze through the mission. There’s a cool breeze on my face, making me feel a bit more normal than I did earlier. Standing at the ferry’s rail I watch the Mississippi flow by. Jeff brought two coffees on board, which we sip quietly, and I pray, pray it stays down, that I don’t throw up all over the deck in front of all the sensible people who are not pickled in bourbon.

Algiers is quaint. The fresh air blowing in from the Mississippi keeps it alive, awake. Walking down a small hill that brings us to the edge of the town, I hear music. More music, like we didn’t have enough last night. A festival of some sort is taking place in a field by the river. People are gathered, watching, dancing, as the band playing on the back of a truck blasts out ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. Burgers, ribs, po’boys and all kinds of food stalls send their authentic scents into the air, making my stomach turn. Jesus, Becca, don’t puke now.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ Jeff says, heading straight for one of the stalls.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Well I’m going to try something.’

Jeff gets himself a po’boy, which is basically a bread roll loaded with stuff. I can’t even look at it.

The crowd continues to celebrate. I find myself looking at their faces, looking for Thomas Collins. There’s a fat guy in the baseball jersey slurping a beer by the burger tent? A skinny, freckled guy slotting baby doughnuts into his mouth one by one? A tired looking guy pushing a buggy? No one resembles the Thomas Collins I seen in the photo.

Jeff puts his wrapper in the trashcan and wipes his face with his hand.

‘That’s just what the doc ordered,’ he says, his eyes focused on the guitar. I’m beginning to feel my nerves twanging. All these people, strangers; why did I come here?

‘Where should we go?’ I say. Jeff seems more interested in the fender on the truck than our mission.

‘What?’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Jeff turns to me. ‘We’ll go to a bar,’ he says, looking up the street opposite.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, it’s the best place to start.’