In some of the earlier morning hours, you couldn’t manage to find sleep. You’d accidentally fallen asleep at your good friends house, that being none other than Alexander Hamilton himself.

He was no more than a good friend to you, wiling and powerful with words and usually in governing and otherwise tactical moments, but after looking at a small pocket watch, it was around 2 or so in the morning. There was no way you could get anymore sleep sitting up on Hamilton’s couch.

You walked down the first hallway you saw, led only by dim oil lamps and the soft scribbling of quill on scrawled paper—a dim sliver of light peering through a crack in the doorway. You decide to gently knock on the door and open it, and Hamilton doesn’t even look up from his writing, a hand resting on his head, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose.

“What is it so early in the morning?”