John sat up in the bed that felt like a wad of straw. Uh-oh, he thought. He was sore in places he hadn't been sore in for about twelve years, and he had something dry, flaky and white on his belly. He put his head in his hands and then realized that he had a pounding headache. With great trepidation, he turned his head to the side.

It was Rodney. Rodney, sleeping flat on his back with ruffled hair, beard burn on his face, and his own flaky, white belly stain. Two empty bottles - and one that had about an inch of blue stuff in it - lay on the floor of the...hayloft? John sighed. This was going to be bad.

"I can hear you freaking out," Rodney said, not even opening his eyes. "Can you please save it for some time when it doesn't feel like a dog died in my mouth?"

John lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. "I guess," he said.

"Good. Thank you," Rodney said.

John was startled when Rodney reached out and pulled him back down onto the straw. John let himself to be eased down to rest his head on Rodney's shoulder.