On the first night, I had to sleep half-sitting, my head resting on my knees and my arms wrapped around my legs to avoid rolling onto something that stank terribly and felt disgustingly warm and wet. As my head cleared, I realized it was my own vomit.
Thus starts Jayaprakash Satyamurthy’s excellent story Empty Dreams, which you can read, in full, if you click on this link. It’s highly recommended. I was blessed enough to read it in an earlier draft, and I’m stunned at how much better even it turned out to be. Read it.