‘Sleep is different for me,’ she says, eventually.
‘How do you mean?’
She sits up then, and looks at him. She thinks she likes him. Maybe there is a different way to deal with all this crap. A way that will help him too. She doesn’t say so, but this isn’t the first time she’s been in a place like this either. Sleep keeps bringing her back to therapy. First it was her sleepwalking and night terrors when she was eight, and now it’s her not wanting to sleep at all.
Sleep, always sleep. Faux sleep, real sleep. The appearance of sleep.
And at the centre of it all is the thing she can never tell them about. They would lock her up for ever if she did. She’s sure of it.