Maddy stares at the ceiling fan above her. The blades look cheap. The base is modest. The ceiling is much too high anyway. How would she even get up there? Only a few hours ago, she would’ve been able to invent a spectacular solution, some elaborate scaffolding or a flying trapeze. She was a gifted genius who could transform into whatever the situation called for—architect, engineer, acrobat.

Now look at her.

Even if she had a ladder handy and that fan could hold the weight of her long enough to break her neck and choke off her air supply, she doesn’t possess the energy it would take to rig a noose out of a belt or scarf or a pair of leggings. She can’t even get up to pee.

The fan isn’t centred above the bed. Or the bed isn’t centred below the fan. Either way, the asymmetry annoys her. She laughs on the inside, a moment of relief, loving the irony. Asymmetry bothers her. That’s funny.

A steady stream of frigid air blasts from a vented panel in the corner of the ceiling onto her naked body, making her unbearably cold. Her skin looks like raw chicken. The top sheet and comforter lie in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. The thermostat is on the other side of the room. It might as well be in Connecticut.

She feels a stretch of flaky film on the inside of her right thigh, a sticky, damp sheet under her bottom. What was his name again? No idea. Is he still here? She quiets her breathing and listens for sounds of life coming from the bathroom or living room. She hears the air-conditioning and her heart throbbing in her ears and nothing else.

She sees broken shards of glass on the floor and remembers now. She kicked him out around five in the morning. She had songs to write, and all he wanted to do was fuck. He was a distraction—not even a good one, she might add—and she needed to be disciplined if she was going to win a Grammy. So he had to go. He protested quite a bit, was still only half-dressed when she threw a bottle of Tito’s at his head. Was it Dylan maybe? No, Dylan was another night. Doesn’t matter.

She looks at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. 11:04. It was just after sunrise when she felt unexpectedly tired and closed her eyes, anticipating a wink of a catnap. This is the most she’s slept in days.

What day is it?

Through the open bedroom door, she can see the piano in the living room and the horrifyingly incoherent song lyrics in her handwriting all over the wall. She remembers justifying this graffiti when she ran out of hotel stationery, that she wasn’t vandalising, that the Palazzo would want to preserve her handwritten lyrics on the wall, that it would actually increase the value of the hotel suite. This is where Maddy Banks wrote her debut, platinum, Grammy award–winning album.

No matter that she’s not a songwriter, that she’s basically tone deaf and doesn’t know how to play the piano. That didn’t stop her. Nothing ever does. Nothing but the crash.

She was supposed to be here for only two nights, Friday and Saturday. She was one of the six comedians performing at Planet Hollywood for the New York Does Vegas show, which was a big-deal gig for her to get. Her older sister, Emily, begged her not to go. Her mother texted her a very preachy, when-are-you-going-to-learn lecture.

You know your sleep is going to get all messed up. You always forget what happens, and then you just keep repeating the same hell over and over.

Maddy nodded, her face forged with seriousness, and responded,

Says the woman who had three children

Maddy’s face then exploded with laughter. She’s sure her mother’s face did not. Her mother wouldn’t know funny if it knock-knocked over her chardonnay.

But her mother wasn’t wrong. The change in time zone certainly was enough to throw her off. But all seemed fine, and her sets went great. Then again, she thought those idiotic song lyrics on the wall were great. There had been a bachelorette party in the audience the first night, a predictable nightmare, but she handled them like a pro. In fact, she remembers killing it, especially the second night. But it’s possible she talked too fast and rambled new material. History has proved that what she thinks happened and what actually happened aren’t always a pair of aces.

She went out with some of the guys after Saturday night’s show and stayed up all night. That might’ve done it. She also drank way too much. And had a bump of coke. It could’ve been the coke. And she hates to admit this and will do so only if cornered, but she stopped taking her meds, left the pill bottles back in New York. Even now, she’s not sure if this was an act of deliberate defiance or innocent absentmindedness. Her answer is going to depend on who’s asking.

At some point she switched rooms because she required a suite. We have one with a baby grand piano. Perfect! She would write her debut album while she was here. She’d been too busy in New York pursuing her comedy career and didn’t have the time or space, but now she had a suite in Vegas with a piano and no need for sleep. She’d write the album and find a producer to record it. Taylor Swift would connect her with the right people. Maybe she’d even want to fly in and collaborate, sing one or two of the songs with her. Of course she would.

Maddy wonders how much this suite costs per night, how many nights she’s been here, how much credit card debt she’s just racked up that she has no way of paying. And for what purpose? She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the shame, but the call is coming from inside the house.

She needs to get out of here. She needs her phone. It’s probably blowing up with texts and missed calls from her mother and Emily. But her phone’s not here. She lost it.

That’s not true. She sees the memory playing in her mind’s eye as if she were watching an Instagram reel. She threw it into the mock canal in front of the Venetian. On purpose. She had reason to believe that the government was tracking her, that the FBI was monitoring and detaining women they deemed dangerous, and she had to evade them at all cost. There’s nothing more threatening to the status quo than a female comic. They are brave as fuck and only speak the truth.

But she’s not feeling especially brave right now. She needs to get up, take a hot shower, and get the hell out of here, but she can’t summon the energy to get out of bed. She can only stare, motionless at the motionless fan, useless in every conceivable way. The high is over. Here comes the crash.

The crash is not a hangover or a drug withdrawal or even karmic payback for a week of reckless all-nighters. It’s a familiar, dreaded houseguest come to visit, a hated, sleazy distant cousin from out of town who shows up unannounced and overstays, sometimes for months. And there’s nothing she can do but open the door and let him in.

Hours ago, she was on an unstoppable quest to become the next Taylor Swift. Winning a Grammy was her manifest destiny. She was a national treasure. This would be funny if it weren’t so utterly stupid and tragic.

The need to get up and go, to evade what’s coming, rises in her chest like a swarm of angry wasps, but her body is already too heavy, a dead-bug specimen pinned in place. Somewhere in her being, a trapdoor opens, and through it she’s leaking all confidence, worth, enthusiasm, and life force by the gallon. She’s becoming heavier than that baby grand and hollowing out at the same time. And while all her superpowers leave her like air spewing out of a deflating bouncy house, in marches the army of negative thoughts, trained and ready to slay. She pictures the infestation, black ants by the thousands covering her defenceless brain like a sticky-sweet picnic.

This is why you’re never going to make it.

You suck.

You’re the worst.

Your mother is going to have to come out here to save your pathetic ass.

Your mother is tired of saving your pathetic ass.

She’d be better off without you.

Everyone would be better off without you.

She wishes she could get up to pee. If she were dead, she wouldn’t have to pee. She stares up at the fan, regrettably out of reach. Being dead would solve everything…