Blinking, I pry my eyes open. My head feels like it's been vacuumed twice and my mouth tastes of dead cat. I swing myself into a sitting position and the world spins just a little bit. I suppose it does that all the time.
"I'm a bit hungover," Duarte says.
"Uh-hum," I grunt. The watch says it's 8.30 but there's a midday brightness in the room:
Welcome to Morocco.