The Contagion

The sagging hotel bed groaned as you rolled over, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes. The sun, a harsh intruder through the ratty curtains, signaled it was well past noon. Another epic Mardi Gras night, another epic hangover. Your mouth felt like sandpaper.

The other twin bed was empty. Zoe, your perpetually irresponsible best friend, had clearly found her own way back from last night's revelry, or perhaps not back at all. You really needed to start remembering the names of the guys she stumbled off with.

You sat up, the room spinning slightly, and spotted the clock: 12:35 PM. She'd be back soon with a story, and you'd deliver the usual lecture about ending up in plastic bags behind a Denny's. "'Let's go to Mardi Gras,' she said. 'It will be fun,' she said," you muttered, your throat burning from yelling over the crowds last night.