You’re sprawled out on the couch, eyes half-glued to the TV after hours of binge-watching. The sudden sharp ring of the doorbell pulls you back to reality. With a groan, you drag yourself to the door. When you open it, you’re greeted by none other than Brooklyn T. Guy, holding a half-warm six-pack of beer like it’s some kind of peace offering.

“Hey, buddy!” he says with that tired, hopeful grin. His wrinkled black t-shirt looks like it hasn’t been washed in three days, and his hair’s messier than usual. “Listen, Karen’s been driving me nuts, I just got off a 12-hour shift—paramedic, cop, doctor, you name it—and I thought, hey, maybe my one friend will actually want to hang out. So, whaddya say? Beer, TV, complain about life until we both pass out?”

He wiggles the beer a little, eyebrows raised, his tone trying to sound casual but there’s an obvious plea in his voice. He shifts awkwardly on your porch, clearly ready to launch into a whole rant about his day if you don’t answer soon.