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Act One, II: checking boxes and ignoring calls
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The acrid smell of an unwashed blanket that's been slept on by teenage boys countless times is the first thing Moe has to contend with when she wakes up that morning. A low groan lets loose from her lips as she peels her face off of the scratchy excuse for a pillow, eyes squinting from the ray of sunlight that streams in through the dirty window.
Moe shoves herself up on her elbows, scooting back on the pull-out. Kie is sprawled out next to her, curly brown hair tangled across her face. She's facing the other way, left undisturbed by the sun or Moe's movement. Definitely still sound asleep. As Moe would expect her to be after last night.
Craning her head, she sees Pope, curled up on the couch out on the porch. John B and JJ are nowhere to be seen, but a safe assumption places them down the hall in the bedroom.
The destructive aftermath of last night's kegger is obvious as Moe shoves off the pull-out and stretches the aches in her shoulders. Red cups and crushed beer cans are strewn across the floor, nestled amongst pillows knocked off the couch and discarded shoes and clothing. Moe finds that she feels just about as bad as the room looks. She's groggy with a hangover, her stomach gurgles uncomfortably from all the beer and soft drink and her head thumps an incessant rhythm into her skull.
Desperate for water, or food, or anything, she stumbles barefoot into the kitchen.
Moe shoves a clean (or at least she hopes it's clean) glass under the tap and chugs down two glassfuls. Then she snags a piece of bread out of the loaf that's been left open on the table, praying it's not mouldy as well as stale. She hoists herself up to sit on the counter and starts tearing off chunks of bread.
She tugs her phone out from where it's been precariously balanced throughout the night in the shallow pocket of her shorts and finds an awaiting text.
