The sleeping form of Reed lies sprawled on the ground, empty bottle in one hand and several more scattered about the floor next to him. As the sun rises outside his window, a square of light slowly crawls across his bed, onto the floor, and finally onto the upper chest of the sleeping nomad. He opens his eyes and blinks slowly.
As he tries lift his hand to shade his vision from the harsh sunlight emanating from his window, Reed’s attention is drawn to one of the small pile of bottles.
His heavy pistol has been posed amongst the glass and synth-plastic containers, as if the remains of his drunken bender were used as props for an album cover of an edgy indie punk band. For reasons that currently escape Reed’s alcohol-soaked brain, the words ‘Mars Sazerac’ are scrawled across the barrel.
He blinks.
He blinks again.
His brow furrows as he reaches slowly towards the familiar firearm, which he grasps and weighs it in his hands.
Reed looks through his bedroom doorway, and towards his front door, slightly ajar.
Perhaps Mavis remembers what happened.