A few times, I run my hands through my hair, undoing my carefully curled hair and creating an impressive facsimile of the beach waves I had at age 19 in Madeli. To round off the recollection, there is a little bottle of tequila, a lime, and some salt. If not, they will. I hope.

After a deep breath, I stand up and leave the sanctuary of the restroom. I wouldn't be surprised if David wasn't in there, but I haven't seen him in there either. The dinner table is required for this operation to succeed.

Realization hits as I make my way around the hotel room: I have no clue...