I woke up at 6 am on an incredibly soft couch with Nicoletta crammed into it next to me. The way we looked and smelled reminded me of Jeanine and I the day before. You’re welcome, Nicoletta, for not waking you up and telling you how terrible you look. Besides a slightly worrisome elevated heart rate, everything seemed to have turned out okay. For me, I mean. The house, on the other hand, looked like it was about to start crying after all the abuse. Soaked-through paper towels lay on still-wet puddles of ash water. One of them noticeably mixed with the blood (Tommy’s) and tears (mine) from the fight. I saw one kid curled up on the bare carpet in the corner, but it wasn’t Berniebro like I had hoped. I say kid, but he could have been 30. I stopped asking people’s age a long time ago, and you’d be surprised how hard it is to guess when no real clues like college or kids come up. Nicoletta, for example. I knew she was at least 21 (LBI doesn’t fuck around with fake ID’s), but beyond that I had no clue. The leathery tan she carried mixed with the innocent way her eyes were placed far apart on her face made it impossible. 26? Anyway, I tried moving from the couch when I realized something was terribly wrong. My body became consumed by lava, with a densely populated rash taking over my abdomen and legs. When I scanned underneath the quilted blanket, I saw Nicoletta had a similar malady, but only below her ankles.