 Hillary has to get out of the house. Lickety split. Got to get out of there. Even though she's waking up once again, face down in a pool of her own dried vomit on the linoleum kitchen floor with an empty one-gallon cardboard box of cheap New Zealand Chardonnay next to her. Quite sad. Secret Service standing over her. Knuckles on the hips, shaking their heads. Tsk, tsk.