Robin didn't awake so much as become dimly aware he wasn't dead.

The windows were bleeding a watery light into the room, the bright eternity beyond his gauzy curtains an esoteric reprimand of blue skies and early birds in two-toned spandex out to take advantage of the morning. He moved, a barest inch towards cognizance, and he felt that was a mistake so soon after being atomized last night, reduced to constituent molecules and reconstructed on the other side of his king-sized bed, all wrong. His head throbbed. His tongue had assumed the fetal position. He could feel the shallow dip of his lungs pushing oxygen into his blood, the little sighs of gas exchange, the susurration of semi-permeable membranes. The universe was ticking in his ear, the Copernian motion as the world turned, the nauseating undulation of the cosmos.

He had to get up.

He rolled out of bed, a necessary sacrifice.

He was still wearing last night's clothes, but he'd had the foresight to take his shoes off before climbing into bed. His tie too. He followed the trail of abandoned menswear into the hallway, wincing in the light, because well-designed apartments were airy and spacious and filled with the glow of opportunity, this one designed by a local architect, soon-to-be right up there with the greats. Frank Lloyd Wright. Frank Gehry. And now, Frank Wynn—a rising star, a credit to the LA skyline.

Robin found he didn't want to think about architecture, but his brain was a separate entity, thinking it anyway: All great architects are called Frank.

Robin stalled out in the living room, surveying the damage. He'd knocked a lamp off the side table. An orange lay in the middle of the floor like an absurdist performance art. Behold the humble orange! said his brain, symbol of California and its sunny citrus valleys—the sunny, empty valleys of our automated industry—a thousand harvest drones with a thousand arms rising and falling in perfect unison; ten thousand pronged hands plucking the ripe Navel orange and setting it gently into the basket with its brothers—the beelike hum of propellers and commerce—a world condensed within the dimpled rind of orange sitting in his living room.

Orange you glad to see me?

Oh, for the love of all things holy.

No.

He made it as far as the couch before giving up, sinking down onto the cushions. Something hard poked him in his ribs. His phone, still in his jacket pocket, battery probably dead or dying. He had the urge to call someone. Anyone. A friend, an acquaintance, a stranger with a passing resemblance to being the same sort of idiot recovering from a night out—a mutual reassurance they'd both been quietly mauled by a bear. But who could he call? In LA? Or did you mean England? His head went unhelpfully through the list. Uncle Edwin? Cousins? Nottingham and the merry House of Harwick? Ridiculous thought. The Creighton-Wards? Maybe now was a good time to apologize for the fountain. And the vase. And seeing as he was in the neighborhood, why not call Marian? He was older now and not nearly as tongue-tied. He hadn't seen her in years. Or had he? Wasn't there a memory of a party in London? A glittering circle of socialites, the dizzying heights of sophistication. He might have been a bit too well-oiled to recall the details. But then, maybe they weren't really worth recalling. He cringed, briefly considered smothering himself with a throw pillow. Marian. Probably still the soul of the party. Probably still attracted to men who could put together a coherent sentence in her company.

He shifted, the phone jabbing him in the side again.

Tell Duncan.

It seems I've made a terrible error in judgment.

Was that admitting too much?

I don't know if you heard about last night.

Duncan must have. And if he didn't know already, he would by Monday. Robin put a hand to his eye, gingerly feeling the socket. There was a perfect answer out there somewhere, a beautifully crafted explanation for how things had gone.

God, the party. His very own Thunderdome. Two men enter, one man leaves. The defending champion, Scott 'Aces' Tracy, the corn-fed beast from Kansas. He must have knocked something loose, like he had taken the initiative to air out the old recollections and send them rattling around in the emptiness. A hard, shriveled memory of the Eton days—Fitzwilliam and the Boys—a technicolor reboot of the classic nobody asked for. But with slightly less punch. Or maybe more. It was hard to tell these days. Fitz had the advantage of time, of course—things tended to look better after ten years or so, even Eton. Fitz had had a flair for the dramatic, that egocentric, head-boy pep that finally got him a leg-up in politics. To be fair, with a name like Fitzwilliam Montcroix he could hardly have had too much of a say in his career trajectory. Strange to think they'd have something in common after all these years.

The silence of the apartment was loud, a ringing in his ears.

Call Duncan.

Apologize unreservedly.

Forgive me, Duncan. I was but a valiant flea daring to breakfast on the lip of a lion.

How bad could it be?

Do you really want to know?

Robin grimaced, sinking deeper into the couch. Maybe he should do something else for a bit, get out of town until things settled. Dust off the old German and head for Darmstadt unmittelbar. He'd been meaning to see the European facilities anyway, and Duncan had been steering things in that direction for a while now—the international circuit, business meetings on a global scale. Stockholm. Singapore. Tokyo. Crisply pressed suits and firm handshakes and project negotiations over glasses of bourbon.

Alternatively, he could do something unexpected. Open up a little B&B in the Cotswolds and retire to a life of country walks and contemplation. Give discounts to people he'd want to come visit. Or head south on the currents, follow the migratory instinct—once more unto the beach, dear friends—someplace warm, perpetually sunny and perfect for trim linen suits in bright hues. Perfect for doing the dead man's float in a blueass lagoon or recovering poolside with a Bloody Mary and fresh fruit delivered by the hotel staff every hour, on the hour.

This was the same, somehow. A serpent devouring its tail. The circular reasoning of the Seychelles, when he'd been afraid he'd somehow smoked a hole through the center of his being, and the world had vibrated long after he'd turned his stomach inside out and flushed himself down the toilet, the bathroom lamp spinning in ever-narrowing circles, a light far away and high above, a pinprick in a vast and formless void. But as bad as that had been, he'd known it would pass, and he'd come down from the high to sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, swearing never again and forgetting the vow by sunrise because he always did and because he wanted to, and the guilt would be pushed aside, cut down, parceled out into other feelings until there was nothing left of the morning after.

I'm sorry, Duncan.

For a moment, the two worlds intersected, one image over the other, the double exposure—Duncan on a yacht, shirt collar unbuttoned, suit jacket tossed aside—blue skies beyond, blue seas below—a picture so clear it hurt when it faded.

I'll do better.

He should get up. It had to be mid-morning at least. Maybe even closer to noon, which meant he'd only have another eight hours or so before he could plausibly go to bed and pass out for another twelve. Fourteen if he was lucky. Sunday would be a slow crawl to Monday—it always was—and things would be back to normal soon enough, the listless march of papers across his desk. He could do a quiet day at the office. A quiet month. He wouldn't feel like this forever. He'd catch his breath. A second wind before the bloody gauntlet of year-end holidays. Or after.

Just last until Christmas, Robin. That was a plan, right? Drink coffee. Go to work. Finally get around to doing something about the apartment. Open the door to the room full of boxes and admire how they hadn't moved at all in the last eleven months. Briefly consider yourself a minimalist—you've lived thus far without remembering the knick-knacks inside, bundled in bubble wrap—a few more months could hardly make a difference. Reflect on the flaws in this conclusion. Realize the value of having someone else do the job. Hire a decorator. Book a hotel room for a weekend, a few days of relaxation, and voilà—come back to a beautifully furnished home. The clean lines. The light colors. The ensemble of the family portrait wall.

Robin felt his throat close up, the silence breaking over him like the surf in Maui—he's been flung from his board and pulled down into the dark, eyes stinging—he's eleven and he's cut his leg open on the coral, and Dad's carrying him back to the car—I'm taking you to the clinic, Robin—there's blood on the cream leather seat and Robin's sorry, but Dad's shaking his head like it doesn't matter, like blood on the perfect leather doesn't matter.

Robin shut his eyes tight.

Dad.

(In other news, I'm very tired of everything. I sincerely hope you are all well and sane and actively participating in the creation of a better world.)