Tim swam blearily towards consciousness, resisting opening his eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to burn through his eyelids. His head was killing him, and he just couldn't face the glare of full daylight.
He'd just lie here, he decided, until the sun went away again.
He wasn't sure how much later it was that he realized that the bed he was lying in felt too firm, and the blanket under his arm was not the patchwork quilt his grandmother had made for him.
He opened his eyes slowly, groaning as the sun assaulted his retinas, and glanced around.
His fears that he'd wake up in a hospital for the second time in as many months were quickly relieved. But as he took in the plain wood furniture and unremarkable off-white walls, he felt a growing unease.
He turned his head, seeking out the clock that he expected to find on the bedside table. Instead, he found only a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin waiting for him.
He struggled to sit up, and realised to his combined relief and dismay that a large plastic wastepaper basket had been placed on the floor next to the bed, and a braided rug that clearly belonged there had been folded in half and slid under the nearby chest of drawers.
A few deep breaths managed to get his stomach under control, but he couldn't suppress a groan as he reached for the aspirin.
The last thing he remembered was sitting in the coffee shop, finishing a plate of cookies while he waited for an arms deal to go down, actually making progress on his novel for the first time in weeks.
He didn't remember having a drink, much less getting drunk.
So how the hell did he end up waking up hung-over in his boss's spare room?