Still groggy from too much to drink, too much partying, too much of everything the night before, he coughed, turned over in his messed up bed, fumbled for his phone found it tangled in the blankets and slowly dialed the number written in ink on the palm of his hand, double checking every time he punched a key that it was right, with the hope that whoever picked up could tell him what had happened after he lost consciousness. A woman answered seemingly in the same groggy state he was in. Hello, he said. Sorry I don't remember your name. Your number is written on the palm of my hand. I hope you're okay. You stayed with me last night here in my apartment I guess you know.
Sorry, but you have the wrong number, the woman said, coughing a little as she hung up.