Song: “Repeat After Me” by KONGOS

James bent forward and placed his head on the open book in front of him, positioning the tip of his nose in the crack between the pages. He thought of learning to blow bubbles in a swimming pool when he was young and remembered that freeing feeling of floating.

But that was before.

Sighing, James pulled his head up and slammed the book shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose, cast a glance at his watch, and drew all 6’5” of himself up to a standing position.

4:03 a.m. meant time to rest, to get the allotted four hours before beginning again in the morning.

James dragged his achy body to his bed and sunk down on the firm plastic mattress. He tried to breathe, then, tried to exhale as easily as he had during that time in the pool, but his chest was tight, and the air must’ve been getting trapped in there somewhere. He knew that human anatomy probably wouldn’t allow that, but he wondered if his respiratory system was different. Why not? The rest of him was.

He looked to his nightstand as he often did at times like this and wished the Institute allowed him to keep photos.

The alarm clock stared back at him. 4:05. He knew he should sleep.

Instead, he pulled open his nightstand drawer and removed its contents—more books—so he could get at the false bottom. He lifted up the felt panel and looked down into the compartment where he stored three bags, each with a different kind of pill: small, fuchsia circles; bright orange ovals; and pale blue capsules.

He popped a blue capsule, then another, and dreamed of the day when he could cast aside orange for fuchsia.

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