That’s what he’s doing right now. Sip. A hundred brain cells gone. Sip. A hundred more. Sip. A lesson from calculus washed away with a swallow. Sip, sip, sip, sip. A memory of a treehouse, of an actor’s name, of a hike along the coast, of a sushi dinner at Kokkaku. But the pain washes away too. The pain of loss. So he drinks. Every day is now a drink. Life is subtractive.

He is relieved to wake up on the couch. His head might give an electric throb when he sits upright, his mouth might taste of bile, and his lower back might be bunched tight like a fist, but that’s better than him wandering off into the dark in his underpants.

He swings his legs off the couch and massages his temples with the heels of his hands. His mind is dizzy and his joints bee-stung when he makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t feel hungover as much as bruised by a restless night. His piss stutters out thick and orange, and he tells himself—for what must be the thousandth time—to drink more water and less whiskey and coffee. But later, later, because right now he needs some caffeine if he’s going to function.

In the kitchen he bangs through the cupboards searching for a fresh filter before giving up and using yesterday’s grounds. The coffeemaker burbles and sputters, and he fumbles for his phone and finds the home screen busy with e-mail and calendar alerts, one of them reminding him of his UW Extension appointment this morning. The fungal consult at the Hemlock Hills Tree Farm in the Olympics. “Shit.”

It’s ten now, and he’s supposed to be out past Griswold by eleven, which isn’t happening. He tries dialing the number on the call sheet, but it rings and rings without going to voice mail. So he skips the shower and breakfast, hustles on a flannel shirt and canvas pants, stuffs his rain gear in a pack, fills his thermos, and heads out to the truck; his field kit’s already in the cab.