The warmth of the sunbeam woke him. It smothered. It felt like a blanket on his face. He opened his eyes and regretted it, squinting, flinching, he tried to block the light with his forearm. A cushion fell from the couch. He stopped and watched the dust float in the blanket of light. A few deep breaths and then he wiggled his fingers and toes, checking they were still there. His eyes closed again. The pillow took his head back and he feigned sleep. It didn't last. He rolled to his side and stared at the coffee table.

Three empty bottles of red wine, two white, a half-full bottle of Bacardi and an empty bottle of generic vodka littered the table.

Too many glasses to count, all grubby.

He rubbed his face, but couldn't feel it. His lips dried shut. He stared again at the suspended dust. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

The tv behind the coffee table played mute cartoons. In front of it lay a body using a coat as a blanket.

He stared then at the floor. The carpet may have been sky blue some time, long before. Every shade of stain in every shape. Jaundiced walls. He squinted again and looked up at the window.

He didn't know where he was.