“Yes, sir.” Sweeney gave Pat a stoic squint. And just then the air-raid siren started up again. The blue-black skies drained out, and an eerie quiet gathered. Barely tethered to his wits, Pat pretended all was fine and began to shop. He picked up a bottle of vodka. This is it, the last one, to celebrate a shitty job offer. Yes, the last one until the next.

The pain erupted again in his side, sending both Pat and the bottle crashing to the floor. Pat fell hard and was paralyzed by the shock of it. All he could do was look up and down the aisle. Rows and columns of liquor bottles. The calm within the storm was replaced now with the groan of the wind churning, squalling against the windows. Sweeney, the store clerk, moved slowly to the end of the aisle and squinted at him. The power, the lights, went out, and the wind began to holler. Pat lay in the glass shards and puddle of vodka. This is it. Here it comes. About fucking time. The bottles of liquor started to shiver on their shelves. Unable to move or get up, Pat lay there in a heap and closed his eyes. All he could hear was the rattle and clink of the bottles, their horrible, dreadful chime.

Pat awoke slowly and sat up in the hospital bed. His appendix felt like it could burst at any moment, and he tried not to move his side, which was near impossible. So he lay back down, burning, immobile, in the emergency room at Medical City. He had a terrible hangover, felt bleary, dehydrated, his legs alternating between numbness and shooting pain. The pain in his side was so bad he almost vomited, and he started shivering like he had the flu. The clerk at the liquor store had called an ambulance. Another shot of agony rifled through him as Pat tried to recall what happened. Did I black out? Looks like it. His side still tender, his skin rashed and itchy, Pat couldn’t get comfortable in the hospital bed. He was shaking with pain one minute and then it would subside. He told one nurse he was in total misery and another nurse he was fine.