I went off to bed and turned out the light once Ezekiel had settled himself with his blankets in the kitchen. As I lay there staring at the shadows on my ceiling, running my fingers gently through the hairs on my chest, I could hear Ezekiel’s snores growing louder and more anguished. But I knew he was not actually anguished: he was sleeping soundly, and the sounder his sleep the more like anguished moans his snores seemed. "He’s been drinking beer all day," I told myself, "and tomorrow he will be miserable and hungover." But I hadn’t drunken at all that day, and I thought, "Unless I can fall asleep, I too will be miserable in the morning." But I could not fall asleep. I knew that he had yet to tell me everything, and I thought long and hard over everything he said, my thoughts working quicker and quicker, unable to put it down. I thought I had figured everything out; and then some new thought would occur to me, and I would have to rework my whole system. I wanted to get up for a cigarette, but I didn’t want to wake him. At last, though I don’t remember how it happened, I fell asleep.