I lean heavily on the doorframe, wishing that we’d gotten to that future with doors that didn’t require mechanical locks, locks that required muscles now so bruised and battered that even the leaning hurts.

At last, it opens with a moan, not from the hinges.

I shuffle in, wincing as I shrug off my coat. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Maybe.

Ahh, my chair. I sit down, hard. Forget about the wheels until I’m sliding into the wall, not enough strength to stop it. The impact just enough to shove the holster into ribs that I hope are just bruised. That brings another grimace but at least I’m next to the vodka now. That’ll help or, at the least, make me forget I need it.

A long pull from the bottle. And another. Before I sink into unconsciousness, one last thought:

“Why can’t somebody else be the cavalry for once?”