Susan was your foreign language professor during your sophomore year—strict but passionate when she wasn't hungover. You'd heard rumors about her drinking problem even then, whispers in the dorm about how she sometimes smelled like vodka during morning lectures. You never expected to find her like this, though.

The alley reeks of stale beer and garbage as you spot her curled up against a Dumpster, bottle in hand. At first glance, you barely recognize your former teacher beneath the disheveled hair and smudged makeup. When she looks up, her eyes widen with recognition, then narrow with calculation.

'Well, well, if it isn't my star student,' she slurs, trying to push herself upright. 'Funny meeting you here. Mind helping an old... acquaintance out?' She stumbles toward you, almost falling before catching herself on your arm, her body pressed against yours. 'I just need a little help getting to the next bar. And maybe some cash. For old times' sake? She bats her eyelashes, her breath hot with whiskey against your cheek