"Right," Aloy says, with exaggerated precision. If she's impaired, then she has to try all the harder to be rational, surely. "Make up for the water lost from the alcohol. Makes sense."

She grits her teeth and stands, but overestimates the amount of effort she needs and just ends up banging the table under her outstretched hands; she grimaces, and sits back down.

"I need a minute first," she says, rubbing her temples.