WHEN I WOKE UP the next morning, my head was pounding so badly I could barely sit up. I was in bed, wearing my clothes from the night before. A bucket sat on the floor beside me, and I cringed in horror when I saw there was barf in it. Who put that bucket there? And whose barf was that?

And then suddenly I knew, with one hundred percent absolute certainty, whose barf it was.

Scraps of images started to form in my head. Jared handing me drink after drink. Jared pulling up my skirt. Paulo standing behind him. The sound of a click. I shuddered at that memory and thought, No, that couldn’t have happened. You had a nightmare, that’s all. Then I had a flash of Stewart, shouting at Jared…. Then Feeble was standing over me along with Violent and Stewart’s friend Albacore. After that, everything went black.

I rolled over and saw another strange sight. My dad was sleeping on my bedroom floor, a quilt pulled over him.

“Dad?” He immediately opened his eyes. “Why are you sleeping on my floor?”

“Because I was worried you might have alcohol poisoning. Because I didn’t want you to choke on your own vomit and die in the middle of the night.” His voice cracked, and he started to cry. “I was so worried.”

“I’m really sorry, Dad.”

“Stewart tried to call me, but we must have been going through a dead zone. I got here just after the police.”

Police? I had no memory of that, either.

He got up and cleaned out the bucket and brought me a glass of water and some aspirin. “I’m starving,” I said, remembering that I hadn’t eaten any supper. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was seven-thirty.

He got me my bathrobe, and we made our way downstairs. It felt like lightning bolts were shooting through my brain with every step.

I couldn’t believe the scene that met me. There were empty bottles everywhere, and broken glass. There were sticky stains on the carpet. Someone had punched a hole in the wall. A puddle of barf (not mine) was in the corner of the living room, and the smell made me almost add to it.

We walked toward the family room. I heard what sounded like crying.

It was crying. Stewart was on his hands and knees, looking under all the furniture. When he saw us, he said, “I can’t find Schrödinger. I can’t find him anywhere.”