I take a second to assess my physical well-being, bracing myself for pain, but . . . I’m fine. My brain is clear, if still slightly groggy from sleep. No aches or pains. My head should be killing me with the racket thumping through the walls. But there’s nothing. No dry mouth, no nausea, no anything.

I’m not hungover at all, which shouldn’t be the case since I don’t drink much and the amount I ingested yesterday was enough to inebriate at least three of me.

Wait, didn’t I fall asleep in the bathtub last night? I must have been really out of it because I don’t even remember climbing into bed.

Knock knock knock.

Someone’s at the door. What time is it?

Stumbling out of bed, I glance down. I’m in my ducky PJs. Didn’t I throw these in the hamper yesterday?

More knocking. Maybe it’s Eloise stalking me since my phone is still dead.

My phone. Which is on my bedside table. I pick it up and stare at the blank screen. Didn’t I mess with it yesterday and throw it in my briefcase?

I didn’t touch my briefcase once I started drinking, so it should still be in the . . . nope. I come to an abrupt halt next to my desk. The briefcase is here. On the floor, perpendicular to the wall. This is where I normally put it, but last night, I dumped it in the kitchen. I know it.

Knocking again.

“Coming! I’m coming.”

I open the door.

The neighbor in the red robe. He’s knocking on Hugo’s door again.

“Hugo! Come on, man, it can’t be that bad.”

I blink at him. Is this like, a daily routine they have?

He pounds on the door again. “It’s Monday! I have a meeting in thirty minutes, Hugo. Help me out here, huh?”

“Monday?” The word whispers out of my mouth, inaudible under the music.

No. That’s not right. What is this, some kind of performance art or something?

I stare at my neighbor until he turns away from Hugo’s door and catches me.

“Hey.” He nods and shuffles over to his door, across the hall from mine.

“I’m sorry, did you say Monday?” I yell over the din.

“What?” A crease forms between his bushy salt-and-pepper brows.

“Today is Tuesday,” I tell him.

He frowns. “No. It’s Monday.”

“It can’t be Monday. Yesterday was Monday.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls his own phone out of a deep pocket in his robe. “Here.” He holds it up, facing me.

“It’s the—” I blink at the impossible date. “It is the seventh.” I’m frozen, staring at the digital June 7th like it might morph itself to 8th right before my very eyes.