There was no hiding from sleep. It found him and threatened his work with shaking hands and bleary eyes. And so he fought it away with tea, then coffee, and when the respected tools failed him, pills. Those worked for a time.
Empty mugs crowded the surfaces around him like wards. Every so often he would force them farther to the edges of the workbenches for another sketch, a bit of prototype, or tool. It was a bad sign when a mug finally tipped over the edge to shatter over the concrete floor, and he could only blink at the dregs and broken ceramic, wondering what to do about it.
The mess stayed where it was. He was too tired to leave his work, a bent knee was close to the floor. And everything looked comfortable at this point.
He could not hide from sleep, but he could glare at it, and curse the heaviness threatening to collapse his eyelids, and fear what it would bring when sleep finally overtook him.
Short heist this week for the Legal Theft Project. The first line came from More than 1/2 Mad.