We load the 'scopes into the car, no simple feat after a night without sleep. They lie in a heap in the back of the car. I'll sore them out tomorrow, er, later today. Biff is slumped forward, his face resting in a plate of corned-beef hash. The rest of us drink coffee and incoherently shoot the breeze.
Biff offers to drive.
The dried hash on his cheek does not inspire confidence. As I follow the broken white line toward home, Biff's snoring reaches 6.7 on the Richter scale.