Morning peered in at Brett rudely.

He felt he'd barely fallen asleep, but he accepted that he'd need to get up and eat breakfast or have to beg a nurse to let him into the pantry again, a habit he didn't want to get into. They'd take notes on it, and it would come up in his meetings with the doctors. They would say his irregular eating habits were a sign that he wasn't making progress. In the hospital, you had to do everything on schedule--show up to meals on time, make use of the gym, attend group therapy, take a shower, and swallow your meds--or you weren't making progress and would be forced to stay longer. Not that he was in any hurry to get back to his lonely apartment, but then at least he could follow his own routine, or lack of one.

The regulars were in their usual spots. Well, not regulars (although they did know each other on a first name basis and had a bit of a clique that suggested it wasn't their first rodeo), but regular enough. Brett sat down in the corner and blinked his eyes a few times. The sunlight was messing with his head a little. Little dots danced in his peripheral vision, and the color seemed weird.

He looked up and noticed the crying woman from the night before watching him. She looked about as terrible as he felt, with circles beneath her eyes and red veins spidering through her eyeballs. She wore a matching pajama set, along with the treaded hospital socks they gave everyone. No one wore their shoes. No need because there was no way they were going outside.

The orderly who passed out the trays was way too cheerful. Sheryl's voice blasted through his brain like birds on meth, and he winced as she wished him good morning. He accepted his tray and nodded at her politely. Examining the scrambled eggs and rubbery sausages, he wished he'd stayed in bed instead of stomaching the meal. But he made himself fork the meat, pushed it into his mouth, and jawed at it until it was in small enough chunks to bump down his throat.

The regulars halfheartedly discussed the craft scheduled for that morning--friendship bracelets, and his eyes fell upon his fellow insomniac once again. They both fought smiles, an expression of disbelief that they were basically at summer camp. But then Brett saw one of the younger guys return his tray and rush to the bookshelf beneath the TV, where the crafts were kept. He pulled out a bin helpfully labeled "string" and started to sort through the different colors. A prickle of shame went up his spine, and he wiped the superior smile off his face. The woman looked back to her tray.

After breakfast, several of the patients went back to their rooms to rest. Sheryl encouraged Brett to make a friendship bracelet. The activity would be grounding, she said. He needed to practice mindfulness and experience the moment, she said. He kindly declined, but there were a surprising number of patients who sat around the table with her, selecting their string. The insomniac lady was one of them. 

"Good choices," he said, pointing to her string.

She smiled up at him. "Thanks."

He looked on for a moment more and then crossed to the bookshelf to examine the titles. There were a lot of paperback romance novels, thumbed nearly to destruction. Some self-help books. A Christian fantasy series. Not much to choose from. 

He picked up the first in the series and went back to his room to read. Maybe he was just tired, but his bed felt soft as a cloud and his blankets were like a lover embracing him as he turned to the first page. The book was surprisingly not horrible. The action got going right away, and he quickly saw himself in the main character's shoes, called to a quest for justice. For the first time, time seemed to move beyond a sloth's pace. Brett pictured the world in brilliant technicolor. The talking animals were majestic, and the villain was hideous. He could even feel the rain and the breeze as the author described it, and his heart quickened during the fighting sequences. 

Brett had left his door halfway open, and someone walking down the hall tripped outside his room, yanking him out of his new world. It was the insomniac. She'd fallen on her ass. 

"You okay?" he asked, settling the open book on his chest, careful not to crack its binding. 

Her face was like a tomato when she looked up at him. "Yeah. I thought these socks were meant to prevent this sort of thing."

Brett snorted. "I'm quickly learning that not everything here does the job it's meant to." 

"You were up last night," she said, picking herself up and leaning against his door frame. "I saw you walking by my door. Couldn't you sleep?"

"Missed dinner," he replied. "Larry was kind enough to let me raid the pantry. If you ever need anything, ask him. He's unconventional-looking, but he's a good guy."

"That's nice to know," she retorted. "I'm Lauren, by the way." 

She stepped inside his room, holding out her hand. He didn't have enough time to warn her that they weren't allowed in each other's rooms before Sheryl's syrupy voice called from the common area, "You need to get out of there, Lauren."

"Oops," Lauren whispered, then swallowed a giggle. "I'd better get back to my bracelet."

Brett watched her go, thinking that he needed to give more people a chance. Even the regulars, maybe. Before he could finish the thought, though, the lights flickered and went out. In the hall, he could see it had darkened as well. But there were no expressions of surprise. The bracelet makers continued to chat with one another as though nothing had happened. 

Cautiously, Brett got up and looked outside. Everything had dimmed. There wasn't enough light from the few windows to see details like the bracelet makers would need to continue their work. Yet they still wove the strings together. Lauren was the only one who seemed to be having trouble. She was looking all around her, a strange pinched look on her face. 

Whatever had happened, she and Brett were the only ones who noticed it.