Britannia, NY

It's been almost twenty years since Jim's gotten stinking drunk for no good reason (good reasons, like Amanda's being born, don't count). But somewhere in between Nathan's getting shot and Mike throwing him aside like that at the school, and this damned strange person inside him who he keeps trying to press back into a memory--

He's had a few shots of Jack Daniels before he stopped at the liquor store, and now he's at the park, sitting on one of the empty swings with his bottle of Southern Comfort in the brown paper bag. At least it's Friday; and it's late enough that most decent people in Britannia are seriously considering bed. If the police do drive by, they should give him a little leeway for at least being of the legal drinking age.

Actually, he hasn't thought it out that far. He isn't really even that drunk. He's jostling the swing a little, morosely, feeling confused and sad and mostly very, very sorry for himself.