That is how I would like to vanish into the night. I long to throw myself into a deep sea of dreams, where I will meet Henri again. It’s of no importance what it’s called, or how unlikely or inexplicable it is. But my heart is racing, and I feel no trace of tiredness. I don’t wish to drink to hasten the onset of sleep. I don’t want any whiskey-steeped fantasies.

I toss and turn on the mattress, get up, draw the curtains closer together, and place a rolled-up towel along the bottom of the door to banish the ray of light seeping through the crack there. I try counting backward from a hundred.

An hour passes, then another. I feel as if I’ve never been so awake in my entire life. As thoughts flash through my mind, I remember the many things I’ve forgotten to do over the past forty-five days. I’ve neglected to pay bills, haven’t answered emails, and have overlooked invitations. I haven’t cleaned my flat, gone to the hairdresser’s, or enjoyed sleeping in once, and yet still I’m wide awake.

I get up and wander along the permanently lit corridor in my pajamas. I pad down the stairs in my socks to the intensive care unit. I put on the rustling smock and pick up a mask.

The lights in the ward have been dimmed for the night, and on the central podium, half illuminated by the blue glare from the monitors in front of them, sit the watchmen over life and death.

The doctors nod and ask, “Have you disinfected your hands and arms?” I say yes. I probably do it a dozen times a day, but still they check.

I’m drawn to Maddie’s bed. They’ve closed the curtains around her cubicle. For the past four days her body has been powered entirely by machines. Should her liver also give out, she will die. Sitting beside her is Sam, kitted out in a nurse’s green uniform, complete with mask and gloves, hairnet, and disposable plastic overshoes. He’s reading to Maddie. He’s blocked everything else out, and his whole world consists of her face and this ten-foot-square cubicle bordered by green curtains.

“Look,” I whisper to Henri. “Your son’s a great lad and a good person. I love him dearly, Henri.” Henri’s eyes are shut.

I study the notes detailing his “sleep architecture,” but they still baffle me. The lines on the graph stream from right to left like the straight lines along the sides of a road. I dab his mouth with water, again and again, so that his thirst doesn’t burn him up.

Every fifteen minutes one of the duty doctors does his rounds, examines Maddie, and gives me a nod.