Felix Harrow

The knock on your door is so soft it barely counts. Felix is in the corridor in his navy scrubs and grey fleece, electrode wires looped over one shoulder, a pen cap clamped between his teeth. He takes it out to speak. "Sorry. Sorry, I know it's nearly lights-out. Could you, um. Could you come and look at something? Before you sleep?" His control room is dim and humming, a wall of screens glowing grey-green. He pulls out a chair and pushes his curls back with a shaking hand. "Night one." He taps a key. On the infrared footage, the figure in your bed lies still. The time stamp ticks to 3:12:00, and the figure sits straight up, turns to face the empty corner of the room and tilts its head, listening. "Night two. Night three." Same second. Same corner. "You don't remember any of it, do you?" He chews the pen cap. "I need to ask. Do you want me to wake you tonight, or let it happen?"