“I realize that—” he said, and in the front room, the Colonel’s shoes squeaked against the hardwood floor. The Eagle took a gander at me curiously and avoided me. I immediately said, “Is that burner on?” and highlighted the skillet. The Eagle wheeled around, took a gander at the not-on burner, at that point ran into the lounge room. Void. He turned around to me. “Are you up to something, Aaron?” “No, sir. Sincerely. I simply needed to discuss Roger.” He curved his eyebrows, distrustful. “Indeed, I comprehend that this is a staggering misfortune for Rosy’s dear companions. It’s simply horrendous. There’s no solace to this anguish, is there?” “No sir.” “I’m thinking to Roger’s inconveniences. Yet, school is significant. Ruddy would have needed, I’m certain, for Roger’s examinations to proceed with unrestricted.” I’m sure, I thought. I expressed gratitude toward the Eagle, and he guaranteed me an egg sandwich eventually, which made me apprehensive that he would simply appear at our room one evening with an egg sandwich close by to discover us A. illicitly smoking while the Colonel B. wrongfully drank milk and vodka out of a gallon container. Most of the way across the quarter circle, the Colonel approached me. “That was smooth, with the ‘Is that burner on?’ If you hadn’t pulled that, I was toast. Even though I surmise I’ll need to begin going to Latin. Idiotic Latin.” “Did you get it?” I inquired. “Definitely,” he said. “Definitely. God, I trust he doesn’t go searching for it around evening time. Albeit, truly, he speculates suspect nothing. For what reason would somebody take a Breathalyzer?” At two AM, the Colonel made his 6th effort of vodka, frowned, at that point hysterically motioned with his hand toward the jug of Mountain Dew I was drinking. I gave it to him, and he took a long swig on it. “I don’t think I’ll have the option to go to Latin tomorrow,” he said. His words were marginally slurred, as though his tongue were swollen. “One more,” I argued. “Alright. This is it, however.” He emptied a taste of vodka into a Dixie cup, gulped, pressed together with his lips, and crushed his hands into tight little clenched hands. “Goodness God, this is awful. It’s such a great deal better with milk. This should be point two-four.” “We need to sit tight for fifteen minutes after your last beverage before we test it,” I said, having downloaded directions for the Breathalyzer off the Internet. “Do you feel alcoholic?” “Whenever alcoholic were treats, I’d be Famous Amos.” We giggled. “Rogers Ahoy! would have been more entertaining,” I said. “Excuse me. Not at my best.” I grasped the Breathalyzer, a smooth, silver contraption about the size of a little controller. Underneath an LCD screen was a little opening. I blew into it to test it: 0.00, it read. I figured it was working. Following fifteen minutes, I gave it to the Colonel. “Blow truly hard onto it for at any rate two seconds,” I said. He gazed toward me. “Is that what you told Kiara in the TV room? Since, see, Pudge, they just consider it a penis massage.” “Shut up and blow,” I said. His cheeks puffed out, the Colonel blew into the opening hard and long, his face becoming red .16. “Goodness,” the Colonel said. “Gracious God.” “You’re 66% of the route there,” I said enthusiastically. “No doubt, however, I’m similar to three-fourths of the best approach to vomiting.” “Indeed, clearly it’s conceivable. She did it. Let’s go! You can outdrink a young lady, wouldn’t you be able to?” “Give me the Mountain Dew,” he said unemotionally. And afterward, I heard strides outside. Strides. We’d held up till 1:00 to turn on the lights, figuring everybody would belong sleeping—it was a weeknight after all—however strides, poop, and as the Colonel saw me confounded, I got the Breathalyzer from him and stuffed it between the froth pads of the lounge chair and got the Dixie cup and the Gatorade container of vodka and reserved them behind the coffee table, and in one movement I snatched a cigarette from a pack and lit it, trusting the smell of smoke would conceal the smell of alcohol. I puffed the cigarette without breathing in, attempting to smoke up the room, and I was practically back to the lounge chair when the three fast thumps came against the entryway and the Colonel took a gander at me, his eyes wide, his abruptly ominous future flying away with a sense of finality, and I murmured, “Cry,” as the Eagle turned the handle. The Colonel slouched forward, his head between his knees and his shoulders shaking, and I put my arm around him as the Eagle came in. “I’m heartbroken,” I said before the Eagle could say anything. “He’s having an extreme evening.