The alarm sounds. It is 5:30. Damn. I get out of bed. It is pretty cold this morning; my house of eight years was built in the same year that my now deceased grandmother was born in — 1915, and she lived until she was 102 — and there isn’t any insulation between the plaster and brick that forms the outer shell of this thing. God I have a lot of stuff today. And the Texas Longhorns play tomorrow night and I have to write a preview.
The bedroom door cracks and I walk out. I creep downstairs, grab the bottle sitting on the counter, and then walk back up and feed my son.