ETHAN

I woke up on the cold, wine-stained floor of my private cellar, the sting of dried liquor crusting the side of my face. My body ached in places I didn’t even know could ache.

My mouth tasted like rotten eggs dipped in ash, and my temples pounded like a war drum. A bottle of vintage Malbec had tipped and leaked, soaking through the side of my shirt.

My pants were wrinkled and stained with something I didn't want to identify. I could smell myself—and it wasn’t pleasant.

The sharp, continuous ding of the doorbell pierced through the fog in my head. It felt like a thousand tiny knives stabbing...