“Well, Miss Maddy”—the man breathes in and it seems, for a suspended second, like he's winding up for something, readying himself to spool out a whole story—“fuck if I know.” He pokes matter-of-factly in his shirt pocket and lights a cigarette, snapping the lighter shut as if in punctuation.

It's not the worst question. Better than how do I get home—more practical. “Same thing happened to me. Woke up in bed upstairs, no memory of how I got there.” Not that that's without precedent. The absence of a hangover had, however, been pretty fucking noteworthy. “You good with patterns? Picking them out?”