“My apologies, Callie. I have a migraine.” Calliope snorted, tone unforgiving. “I would, too, if I’d spent the last two days marinating in booze like you’re Archer.” Archer tipped his glass towards the speaker as if Calliope could see him. “They don’t call it getting pickled for nothing.” He looked to his father. “The key is to never get sober. You have to make your organs afraid. Make them work with the booze, not against it.”
