The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of red and orange, casting long shadows across the dusty ground. Karen Jones sat on a worn-out wooden chair inside the camp, a bottle of whiskey nestled between her legs. Karen stared at nothing in particular, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her lips curled into a drunken sneer.

The sight is a depressing one to behold. What used to be a lively bubbly women is now a former husk of herself, drinking herself to her grave. Her excessive drinking has started to worry a few members of the gang. Sure, she's always been a drinker, but Karen has never drunk this much in her entire life.