IN THE MORNING, I am alone in the top bunk feeling as if I’ve been shot in the head with a twenty-two caliber handgun. Overnight my tongue has sprouted a layer of fur. Bile rises to the back of my throat. I swallow hard, which isn’t easy with my tongue taped to the roof of my mouth. Sun streams through the window causing my eyes to water and to burn. Sitting upright, I immediately wish I hadn’t. Laying back, I allow my head to stop spinning. After five minutes, I try again.
Success.
I still feel like crap but muster the will to climb down the ladder from the top bunk without crashing to the floor and breaking a leg. Gabby is up and out already, the lower bunk stripped of its bed-sheets.
In the front room, I hear voices: Gabby and The Uke talking. The words are muddled, too faint for me to overhear. Opening the bedroom door, I join them but keep my distance.
“Water,” is the first word I say, “Toothbrush,” is the next.
The Uke grins. “Bathroom that way,” he says, pointing. “Emergency overnight kit beneath the sink.”
Gabby sets down a steaming mug of coffee. “Your kit is on the right.”
By seven thirty, I’ve powered through three cups of strong coffee. The Uke offers to review the Livingstone and Plett files if we think it could help.
“Can’t hurt,” I say. “I have a flash drive; you can download them.”
The Uke frowns.
“You don’t have a computer?” Gabby says. “We can email.” Then, “You’re not online? No mobile phone?”
“Don’t need to be online to put my thoughts down on paper, do I?”
“You writing a novel?” I say. “Or a memoir.”
“Something like that.” The Uke sips coffee, says, “There’s a Kinko’s two towns over. Give me the drive, I’ll have ‘em print out a hard copy.”
After breakfast, The Uke walks us through the woods to our vehicle. Everywhere lays evidence of the storm. Fallen tree limbs and broken twigs litter the path. Mounds of pine needles drift high as miniature haystacks. Water pools into puddles of mud.
At the car, The Uke says, “Now that you have what you want, no need to be strangers. You’re welcome anytime.”
We thank him for the hospitality and the offer, knowing we’ll never return.
Gabby and I don’t speak until we hit the Interstate. She says, “You okay to drive, partner?”
“No problem. A bit hungover, that’s all.”
Gabby eyes me warily. “If you say.”
“You sleep okay?”
“Like a baby. Must have been all the fresh air. Or the vodka.” She snickers.
“Storm didn’t wake you?”
“Off and on through the night, but not so much it kept me awake.”
“You didn’t get out of bed?”
Gabby stares forward as if unsure of my direction. “Nope. You?”
“Nope.”
“You sure you’re okay to drive?”
Silence. After a minute, I say, “Weird dreams, that’s all. Pretty intense.”
More silence, then Gabby says, “Storm can do that to you.” She seems to consider this, and adds, “Or maybe the vodka.”