“Colton.” 


My name is a string leading me out of sleep. Guy’s voice. Impatient. Smell of chlorine and stale beer. Sound of birds. High-pitched whee followed by a whrr that’s a good three octaves lower. The orange clouds inside my eyelids are too bright. 


“Colton. Colton. Colton.”


Shit. It’s Logan, and I already have a splitting headache.


Blink, blink. The sun’s low on the other side of the garage. Still too bright. My cheek is at the edge of the pool. Jan, the pool lady, in wraparound Oaklies and a trucker cap, pushes the vacuum under the water with a long aluminum pole. Forward, then back. Whee-whrr.


“Colton.” Logan’s voice is above me. 
There’s no rule against sleeping in the backyard and I don’t need his permission to be hungover. All I need is ten minutes to get to the bathroom to piss, then the kitchen for water and a few Advil. Then I need the rest of the day to sleep this shit off.


“Colton.”


“Fuck off.”