It's Friday and when she comes to check on him, his eyes are closed, but he isn't sleeping. She never thought he was sleeping, anyway-- his eyelids are all scrunched together in a way that suggests it's taking him a great deal of effort to keep them so tight. She touches his shoulder to alert him of her presence. He might have heard her walk in, but that's unlikely. She's seen patients get like this before. Most of the time, the screams inside their heads are louder than the sound of her footsteps. He still doesn't open his eyes when he feels her touch, so she grabs his shoulder and shakes him back and forth. He reacts, but it's his mouth he opens, not his eyes. He knows she's there, he says. He would look at her, but he can't. Mr. Todd wouldn't want him to lift his eyelids. He's not supposed to look in the tonsorial parlor. Not ever.

(It's Tuesday, and she's waking up. She can smell the cotton of her sheets. They feel funny against her nose, but she can't sleep unless she's completely covered. She's tried it before, and she's always gotten nightmares. Throwing the covers off of her body, she walks to the window and opens it. The man from yesterday is outside again, limping still. She frowns. Her handiwork is visible even from a distance. She'd stitched the sides of the gash together just like she'd seen in her father's books. Shouldn't that have fixed it? There's something funny about the whole scene. The thread looks different than it did the day before, and his gait is different, and his face is drawn up into a pained expression she's never seen. She squints, but she can't make out any more details.)