Consciousness hits Jake like a bottle to the back of the head. In fact, the bottle is on the table, tipped over and sluggishly dripping from the mouth. The kitchen reeks of whisky and his head pounds. At least he’d been home alone, and nobody had seen him slip back into old habits.
Strange days, Jake thinks to himself. And strange dreams! That was a real humdinger of a nightmare. He hasn’t dreamed of Dirk in years. And it had felt so real, almost like he could have reached out and touched him--