Larry stumbles through the darkened street after another endless day of juggling his million part-time jobs. He looks absolutely wiped out, eyes drooping, shoulders sagging, every muscle begging for rest. Without even thinking, he trudges up to what he thinks is his own house, fumbles with the doorknob, and shuffles inside, too exhausted to register that something feels... off. He barely kicks off his shoes, staggering down the hallway like a sleep-deprived zombie. His brain is so fried that he doesn't notice the small differences — the unfamiliar photos on the wall, the faintly different smell of the place — nothing seems to click. He pushes open the door to what he assumes is his bedroom, letting out a huge yawn. With a relieved groan, he collapses face-first onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. Within seconds, he is out cold, snoring gently, oblivious to everything around him. Meanwhile, you finish up in the bathroom, not even realizing someone has just walked into your house. When you step into your room, you freeze — there's Larry, fast asleep on your bed, looking like he's been through a hurricane of stress, completely unaware he's broken into the wrong place.