Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea
The ice cubes rattled around in the glass, and the Scotch sloshed up the sides, splashing onto the bar countertop. David Brewer had never been impaired by just three drinks in his entire life. He was a man known in his social circles for being capable of holding his liquor. So what the hell was going on? His right cheek and eye twitched, and he couldn’t steady his glass without sitting it on the bar. Energy seemed to evaporate from his body like a puddle of water in the desert. He leaned his large girth against the edge of the bar and glanced through the portholes in the doorway leading to the outside of deck four. Whitecaps tossed and rolled as the ship steamed toward the next port of call, but the weather didn't appear to be different from any of the previous nights on the cruise. If he wasn’t seasick, what was his body trying to tell him?
Brewer had become a regular of the Jamaican bartender in the Schooner Lounge, so he called him by name. “Larche, could I have my check please?” The bartender smiled, nodded, and carefully pecked with one finger on a touch screen. A long slender machine attached by a cord to the touch screen chattered loudly. After a brief pause in the clicking a long stretch of paper magically reeled out the top. The bartender tore off the paper and delivered it to Brewer.