My nose desperately wants to protect me. Somewhere in my brain, a half dozen nerve cells flicker in appreciation for its dedication.

The rest of my brain would give anything to turn down its services between the hours of 2 and 7 AM.

Look, nose, I’ll cut you a deal. I’ve got a plane to catch in seven hours. I know, my bad, I didn’t re-stock on NyQuil. But you’re killing me with kindness here. I really think this cold is mostly beat. You turn off the spigot now, and I’ll treat you to Biore strips or something. Do they still sell those? Yes? I’ll buy you a month’s supply. No? Look, I’ll do anything. Name your price. All I want is a respectable seven hours of solid recharging. Baltimore smog be damned.