“On an unrelated note,” Winston says to me. “How does your head feel?” I frown, gingerly touching my fingers to my skull. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” Winston says, “that this is probably a good time to tell you I’ve been pouring whiskey in your tea all night.” “What the hell?” I sit up too fast. Bad idea. “Why?” “You seemed stressed.” “I’m not stressed.” Everyone stares at me.
