Fifty Nine Hundred

squeak squeak squick. Pause. A flash of light. squick squick squeak. I'm awake, though the shatter-proof glass shows no signs of dawn. The hard clanking darkness outside mutters nothing to see why aren't you asleep? should be asleep go to sleep.

There is no more sleeping. I push off the starchy sheets and don bed socks, sweatshirt, hat. The common room is dim and hushed, with the night staff laughing behind the counter. They smile at me - I shuffle out, owl-eyed, clutching my book, and bid a whispered "good morning."

"Good morning. How did you sleep?"

I shrug. Doesn't matter. The hour hand is just brushing five. I curl up as best I can in a stiff-backed chair and open my thirteenth book in the past four days, blocking the thoughts before they could wake up. My foot is twitching. The phone rings behind the desk and a nurse answers "Fifty-Nine Hundred."