I tried. I couldn’t. I was struggling to recall the details of the commencement speech J.K. Rowling gave in 2008, the one about how failure is good for you, when the nurse knocked to signal that the four minutes were up.

I had one more chance, he said, but I’d have to start over. “And technically we’re already closed, so you’d better be fast.”

And then I drank more water than I ever have in my life. Having locked my water bottle in the metal box, I had to stand next to the cooler and keep refilling a four-ounce paper cup. I don’t know how much I drank, but my stomach already felt fit to burst when I noticed that a kid next to me seemed to be having a similar problem. “Keep going,” his dad insisted. “Don’t be a wimp.” At least I’m not a wimp, I told myself. Then again, that kid probably wasn’t at risk of failing a drug test.

Feeling painfully bloated and a little ashamed, I considered what my own father would have told me had he been there. “I think you should keep drinking,” he’d have said, even though he’d have really meant, “I don’t believe in weakness.” I sighed and refilled the sad little paper cup.

“Mojaluski?” said the receptionist. It was 1 p.m. Do or die. Urinary bladder, don’t fail me now, I thought as I hobbled to the bathroom.

Then I did it. I filled the cup to the line. I high-fived the nurse (after he’d poured the sample into a plastic test tube) and left “Quest” feeling victorious. I only made it about a third of the way home before remembering that I’d left my wallet, phone, and keys in the aluminum lock-box.

I will spare you the details, but I could not venture far from the bathroom for the rest of the day.  Hours later, as I lay on the couch feeling lightheaded and uncomfortable, my dad said, “That’ll teach you not to drink so heavily.”