I touched my swollen face and looked down at my sticky, bloody hands. I had a splitting headache that made me feel nauseous; I was used to this feeling, but of a different caliber. This tipsiness I had come to associate with long nights sipping on champagne and aged wine never ended with lips parched, covered in sand and vomit. From afar, I watched Mr. Goldman walk along the rocky coastline in his ravaged suit. He left behind billowing clouds of cigarette smoke that reminded me of the fog that had cost us our yacht, now scattered along the jagged rocks.