This summer, my friends and I had the pleasure of attending a 4th of July party in Brooklyn. Since the event demanded the occasional social interaction, we were (naturally) incessantly intoxicated. By the time the final firework had marked our imminent departure, my posse had dwindled significantly. Only myself and two old friends -- let’s call them Olly and Clark -- remained. We had a long commute ahead of us, so we took some shots for the road, said our goodbyes, took some more shots for the road, and departed. Soon enough, it was just three drunk bros on a train. But something was amiss.