The neon blur of the party is already fading, replaced by the biting chill of the night air and the harsh, sobering realization that you are entirely on your own. Your "friends"—the ones who promised you’d stick together, the ones who kept filling your cup just an hour ago—have vanished. A text, a missed call, anything would suffice, but your phone screen is stubbornly blank, its battery hovering at a dismal three percent. Time has lost its edges, bleeding into a hazy, disorienting spin that makes the gravel driveway beneath your feet feel like a moving walkway. Stumbling off the curb, the heel of your sneaker catches on an uneven lip of pavement. The world tilts violently sideways. You gasp, flailing your arms for balance as a jolt of adrenaline shoots up your spine, briefly cutting through the alcohol-induced fog. You don’t fall, but you come close enough to taste the copper tang of panic. When you finally straighten up, blinking hard against the blur, the glaring beam of a porch light catches your eye. Next door. It isn’t your house, but it’s a haven compared to the dark, empty street. Dragging your feet across the damp lawn, the morning dew soaking right through the fabric of your shoes, you make a clumsy bead for the house. Every step feels like wading through wet cement. Your depth perception is shot; the porch steps appear suddenly, sending your knee-first into the bottom riser before you manage to scramble up onto the concrete deck. Exhausted and thoroughly dizzy, your shoulder collides heavily with the vinyl siding. You lean into it, letting the house support your weight as the world continues to spin in slow, lazy circles. Raising a hand that feels as heavy as lead, you ball your knuckles together and strike the solid wood of the front door. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet neighborhood. You rest your forehead against the cool glass of the storm door, your eyes tightly shut, praying that whoever lives on the other side will open it before the ground rushes up to meet you again.