Darien stretches. "How long have you been awake?"
Isolde glances at Nash, then winces. "Um."
Nash rubs the back of his neck. "About an hour?"
He stares at them. "You've been awake for an hour and didn't wake the rest of us?"
"We thought—" Isolde starts.
"…that you deserved sleep," Nash finishes.
"Okay," Darien mutters, rubbing his temples. "As heartwarming as… whatever that was is…" he gestures vaguely at Nash and Isolde, "…we need to wake everyone up. We have two hours left before we are officially exiled."
Isolde sobers immediately. Nash straightens too
The bungalow looks exactly like it feels—like the aftermath of a battle fought with alcohol and denial. Bodies are sprawled everywhere. Morgan is face-down on the rug, one arm flung dramatically over his head. Grayson is half on the couch, half on the floor, boots still on. Heidi is curled tight against the armchair, Grayson's discarded jacket draped over her like a shield.
