7

AT THREE IN THE MORNING…

PINKISH, TRANSLUCENT, RIDGED AND UPTILTED wall sconces light the after-dark corridors of every Idyll Inn, including this one. From a distance they resemble valuable old glass, but in fact they are made from recycled plastics and are pleasantly inexpensive when bought in Idyll Inn quantities. And who can tell the difference? They’re set high enough that even the most skeptical residents won’t be leaping up to examine them closely.

There is a density to the dim radiance, too, that creates its own silence. The first person to set out on the night’s journey at the appointed hour feels wary and out of place, even though this is the same smooth, handrailed, plain-sailing corridor regularly travelled in daylight.

The sole overnight-shift staff member gloomily or sleepily or irritably responsible for covering the main floor made her last rounds an hour ago, and now, barring some kind of alarm, she will be settled in the office down the hall, around a corner, past the dining room, well out of sight and sound of a shady first-floor corridor, till the kitchen staff start arriving to set up for breakfast. This is a well-scouted, predictable pattern—who expects aged residents to be skulking around at this hour, when they’re supposed to be tucked up in their beds?

Still, care is required.

The tall, narrow figure taps on a door, steps inside. In foxholes, the bullying old saying goes, there are no atheists; which is a lie, she believes. Hoping for mercy and grace under fire isn’t at all the same thing as belief.

Because what sort of god would put people in foxholes to start with?

“You’re ready?” she whispers to the waiting figure, a bulky silhouette against moonlight. Then, “Courage.” Which is not to be mistaken for a prayer; more a battlefield exhortation.