The first thing Eddie did that morning was shut his bedroom door. He was certain he had closed it before he went to sleep.

"Son of a bitch" he thought. It was 9am, and it had happened again. Sleepwalking was never a problem before he moved to the city. He’d never say it out loud, but San Francisco was winning the fight.

He fell asleep in his clothes. Par for the course. A normal Sunday morning, after a normal Saturday night - two too many drinks with the only people he knew well enough to consider friends. He knew better than to drink that much. Or at all. The anti-depressants don’t work if you drown them in depressants. Never one to be the odd man out, he never refused a beer.

Settling into his morning routine had become a chore. His legs felt heavy as he went to the bathroom to take off yesterday’s clothes and get into the shower. As he went to the sink to splash water onto his face, trying in vain to overcome the headache, he noticed his face in the mirror. Older than he remembered. San Francisco was aging him. She hadn’t been a friend since Lucy died.