When you're a chain-smoking alcoholic sociopath incapable of feeling emotion, you sometimes have trouble remembering things. Like where you are and how you got there. Today was one of those days. As Kevin lifted his weary, aching body from where he was, he looked around, wracking his brain on where he is. Looks like a bedroom. He thinks it must be his own, because he doesn't know why he'd be in any other bedroom. So he stands up and looks down at himself. He's wearing his clothes. Good. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette, reaching into his other pocket to grab his.... Wait. His pocket is empty. Where is his lighter? Oh God. He looks on the bedside table and doesn't see it. In the drawer? Nope. FUCK. Shit. Where is his lighter? He's suddenly filled with dread. If he doesn't have a lighter, he can't light his cig. That's a bad thing when you're a chain-smoker.