It was 19:58 when a soft blue flash from the system signalled to Jane that her visitor had arrived – or at least chosen to make himself known. Most likely, he had been pacing outside her windowless chamber for some time, nervously waiting for the appropriate moment. About two-thirds of her subjects did that, and all of them came with a strategy of some kind: some arriving much too early, others just a little late, yet others timing their arrival to the exact second. It made no difference. Jane always opened the door at precisely 20:00.
She rose from her chair at the glass console and tapped the touchpad to make the screen fold into the desk; she wanted her visitor fully present with her, not with data. At the door, she paused to check the time again: 19:59:26, softly projected onto the wall in blue digits. She surveyed the tiny chamber once more – datastream now hidden, teacups waiting in the tiny kitchenette, the bed in the corner neatly made with blue sheets. When the digits showed 19:59:58, she pressed her hand to the bio-sensor and unlocked the door. It swung open without a sound, on perfectly maintained hinges. While the entire chamber was soundproof by protocol, Jane had found creaking doors to be deeply unsettling to her subjects.
Her visitor stood a couple of steps from her door, silhouetted by the silvery path lights in the darkened forest. By the soft light spilling from her chamber, Jane saw enough of his face to know that this would be a tough one. The forecast had rated his likelihood of survival over the next six weeks at 45.2 per cent, but Jane doubted he had even those odds. The tension in his shoulders was obvious. He had bitten his lower lip bloody on the way here, and his fingertips were in constant motion, although he was clearly trying to force them into stillness.
Jane decided on a smile. “Alan, right?”
He hesitated, then said, “Alan-three-five, miss.”
“Thank you. We’ll be okay with Alan tonight. I’m Jane. Come in.“
She stepped back inside, leaving plenty of space for him to follow. Almost two seconds passed before he did, his steps softened by the sound-dampening tiles.
“The door …?”
“Leave it open for now. We’ve got some time.“
She moved over to her desk to give him space, but didn’t take her eyes off him. He had stopped right after the threshold, which wasn’t unusual – and honestly, not bad. Not everyone made it that far without help.
He was one of the younger ones she’d had, in his mid-twenties and only three weeks out of the restoration centre. There was a very human softness about his face already, portraying the intensity of still-unfamiliar feelings. His dark eyes were a little wide. He had dressed in a simple shirt and grey trousers under a dark coat – more suitable than most. There was a certain creativity to what people came up with when her instructions clearly read, Please wear soft, comfortable clothing.
“You came alone,” she noted. “How come?”
He shrugged. “My guide wouldn’t be able to come inside anyway, right?”
“That’s true.”
“I didn’t want any drama outside.”
Jane was almost certain that the drama would take place inside. His coat was buttoned wrong, and his hair looked as though it had been brushed but unsettled a dozen times since. But she only said, “You can leave your coat and shoes by the door. If you want to freshen up, the washroom is over there.” She nodded towards the nearly invisible door set neatly into the wall panels. “Look around, ask anything you like. I’ll get us some tea.”
While he followed her instructions, Jane busied herself unnecessarily with setting the kitchenette controls to cold water and back to hot. She checked the prepared cups – blue safety ceramic, camomile-valerian for him and Energy Infusion C for herself. There was a blue bowl of biscuits, too, though she tended to be careful with those. The sugar didn’t always have the desired effect, and with Alan especially, she had to get this right.
She glanced over her shoulder to observe him. Alan. Dark-haired, a little taller than her, fingertips in motion again. Was he one of the brave ones to come here alone – or simply very intent on keeping up appearances, which might make things harder?
“It’s … smaller than I expected,” he said, and his eyes flicked to the bed in the corner, then back to her.
“It is important that you stay present,” Jane told him. “That’s part of the reason the place is small.”
“Present,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It means that your attention remains with me,” Jane said, “and with you. But you don’t need to do anything about it. I will guide you through everything.”
His eyes went to the bed again, this time lingering.
Jane stepped over and rested her hand on the footboard. “Is this the first time you see one?”
“No,” he said. “But …”
“You can sit on it if you like. In your own time.”
She hadn’t expected him to, and he didn’t. He stayed in the centre of the room, as if trying to avoid the soundproof panels surrounding him. One hand had gripped the other elbow, scratching nervously.
“They say your outcomes are good,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Better than most.”
“The best,” Jane corrected. “You will be very safe with me.”
He nodded, and again his gaze skittered around the room.
Jane had observed and facilitated this process many dozens of times, and this was one of her favourite parts – observing them as they observed the bed. It was a time when she came close, when she could almost see through their eyes.
Almost feel what they felt.
The protocol called for sheets, one blanket and one pillow, but Jane had adapted the setup several times – beginning with the bed itself, which she’d found too narrow for her restless subjects. The wider one she used now had light-blue bedclothes with yellow stars and moons, and a plush fox was gently tucked beneath the blanket. Jane had acquired that one very recently – white and orange, tiny paws – and it had spiked her success rates by more than five per cent. A faint scent of lavender lingered on the pillow.
Alan, of course, wouldn’t be so easily enticed. His expression remained tight, a tiny frown between his eyebrows. He was still standing in the centre of her chamber as though he expected the walls to close in on him. His stress response exceeded expected parameters.
A gentle chime announced the water was ready, and Jane went to fill the teacups. She was just about to lift his when a fluctuation in her anomalous pattern compelled her to add a second infusion pearl to his cup. camomile and valerian wouldn’t do any harm – she could defend that to her supervisor.
“What if I don’t … you know?” Alan asked when she returned with both cups.
Jane held out one to him. “You’ve stopped taking your reds?”
He nodded.
“Then you will. It’s only a matter of time. The tea will help, too.”
He took the cup and held it in both hands. “I heard of someone who didn’t.”
“I know. You have probably heard a lot of very frightening stories. But the truth is, this process always works.”
“Not the first night though, right?”
“That’s true. Some people need a little more time. That’s okay. But I don’t think that’s going to be you.”
“Why?”
She scanned his face. Redness at the corners of his eyes. The skin beneath had begun to darken. His blinks were dragging a little longer than normal. “You can feel it already, can’t you?” Jane asked.
He shook his head.
“Drink your tea,” she said gently. “Would it help if I told you what it will be like?”
She had started asking that question after one elderly woman had hyperventilated when she’d felt the first onset of signs. The older ones tended to be more difficult – more years of habit to undo.
Alan took a sip of tea, then another – big enough to trigger his heat-warning sensors, most likely. Jane had seen this before; many of her subjects didn’t care at this point.
He glanced at her again. Jane tried to adjust her features to a more open expression. She had made her bun less strict today, and she hadn’t tucked her shirt quite as neatly as usual.
Alan took an audible breath – probably trained by his restoration guide. His fingertips kept tapping the teacup. “It’s just … how sure are you I’m going to come back?”
“Entirely,” Jane said, this time without a smile. “There’s absolutely no doubt about that. I know the forecast can be scary, but none of that happens here. You are safe here, and you’ll still be right here in the morning. I promise.”
He nodded, and his shoulders dropped a little. “Tell me, then.”
Jane stepped closer and drew on the combined descriptions she’d heard over the years. “It’s a little different for everyone, of course. But many describe, in the hours before, a deepening sensitivity. They start disliking loud sound or bright light, difficult conversation. Things grow slower, heavier. You’ll feel it in your body – maybe especially in your eyes and on your skin. Your eyes may feel as if you’ve got sand in them. You’ll want to close them. One person described it as an itching under her skin. You’ll want to rest. Probably to lie down.” She glanced towards the bed, then back at him.
The ever-present frown had deepened between his eyebrows. “But I don’t have to?”
“I’m not going to make you. No one is. You choose what feels most comfortable.”
Jane observed him for a moment, and her anomalous pattern stirred again. She glanced at the still-open door, then said, “Can we try something? To help you feel a little calmer.”
His reply was more a shrug than a nod, but Jane still set her teacup down on the console desk and drew a small wristband from the pocket of her uniform jacket. It was thin, adjustable rubber. She held it out to Alan. “I’d like to put this around your wrist. It helps me track how ready you are, and I can help you adjust your breathing accordingly.”
After a brief hesitation, he held out his free hand and allowed her to slip the band over it. Jane adjusted it carefully, and a moment later it linked to her datastream. His vitals flickered through her mind – heart rate and breathing rate were both slightly elevated.
“Take a breath,” she said. “You’ve learnt how to do this.”
He had. She could tell from the way he followed her rhythm easily: inhale to the count of four, exhale to the count of six. His eyes found hers at last and locked onto them – probably because he now associated her with his restoration guide.
Her datastream, constantly adapting his prognosis from his vitals, verbal responses and elapsed time, displayed the current forecast: 65.2 per cent likelihood of survival.
Good.
“You’re doing well,” Jane said softly, keeping her own breath slow and audible. She guided him through eight breaths until his shoulders eased, then through another two until his heart rate dropped into the upper normal range. Then, suddenly, his mouth opened slightly, jaw tightening. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled deeply, opened his mouth fully – and then broke off the instinct, eyes wide open again.
“It’s okay,” Jane said. “That’s your body trying to yawn. Let it.”
He backed away. “Why? Why’s it doing that?”
“It’s starting to let go. That’s good. Letting go is what we want.”
Alan backed away further, turning towards the open door. For a moment Jane wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t simply walk out. But he didn’t. He stopped on the threshold, suspended between the night air and the soft glow of her chamber, between the freedom outside and the transformation awaiting him inside.
This, too, was one of the parts she appreciated most – the indecision, the struggle she could almost feel. The instant when fear and courage collided and they chose courage. Over and over again. After over eighty transitions, she still hadn’t quite understood why.
But Alan was struggling more than most. The number in her datastream had dropped to 59.6 per cent. Jane didn’t like the direction this was going.
She walked over to him. “Are you ready for me to close the door?” she asked.
Alan didn’t answer. His throat worked, but no words came.
Her pattern stirred again. She lifted her hand, almost reached out to him, but didn’t. She wasn’t supposed to at this point. “You will be very safe with me,” she said instead. “I promise you.”
“Okay,” he said. Barely.
Jane closed the door gently, appreciative of the fact that the hinges made no sound, and it locked tight.
“Why you?” Alan asked, still staring at the closed door as if he could see beyond. “Why not a fully restored?”
“Would you have preferred that?”
He only lifted his shoulders.
“Your restoration guide seems to think I’m a good fit for you,” Jane answered. And, she thought to herself, for someone who needed the best chances he could get. “I will take good care of you, Alan. Better than any restored ever could.“
She couldn’t feel pride, not as such. But she knew her work was good, and that it made a difference. It created a quiet sense of alignment in her.
Alan glanced at her over his shoulder, then turned back to the door, stoically peering at it as though there were something to see. She wasn’t offended – probably wouldn’t have been even if she’d been able to feel. His behaviour was predictable and logical. Briefly, she considered the biscuits. But not yet.
“I’m not going to lie down,” he said.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”
He took a heavy breath, then turned to her. The frown had softened. “I don’t mean to be difficult. I know you’re being kind.”
“You’re not difficult,” she said. “I know it’s a scary place to be.”
Another breath. Good.
He glanced at her chair at the desk. “Can I sit?”
“Of course,” she said. It was curious, how they thought of the bed as dangerous, but didn’t realise the chair was already halfway there.
He pulled out the chair just as the digits projected on the wall switched to 20:22. They were only just beginning.
For the first hour, Alan behaved predictably, with most of his actions falling within one standard deviation. He sat at her desk for nineteen minutes, staring at the concealed console screen as if he could make it rise again by the power of his gaze. Then he paced the room, occasionally sipping his tea. She offered him a second cup and he accepted, holding it with both hands, just as close as the first. He glanced at the bed, then deliberately away again. Back to pacing, and finally back to sitting. The softly projected numbers turned to 21:21.
The silence deepened. Jane didn’t mind; she didn’t feel impatience or boredom. Besides, her attention was on reading the subtle signs – another stifled yawn, longer blinks, a quick rub at one eye. When Alan began to squint, she dimmed the lights, so gradually he wouldn’t notice. Too late for the biscuits now; the sugar would tug him back towards waking.
For several minutes, Alan stood with his back to her. Jane tapped into his vitals feed: twenty-three breaths per minute, heart rate at ninety-eight. Elevated, but acceptable for now. They had barely gone two hours.
“Are you still there?” Alan asked eventually.
“Of course. I’ll be here for you all night.”
“Thought you’d drifted … into some calculations, maybe. Or something.”
“I am fully present with you.”
“Okay.”
Her pattern stirred. A tiny impulse.
She stood and took a step closer. “Would it help if we talked a little more?”
He scraped at a nick in the nearest wall panel with one fingernail. After a brief hesitation, he said, “We could just be doing this with drugs, couldn’t we? I’ve read about it. They used to put people to sleep all the time, pre-Null.”
“That’s true. For different reasons, though. And you know that wouldn’t serve the purpose.”
“Or we could switch up the order. Sleep first, feelings later.”
“So you wouldn’t have to be scared?”
He didn’t answer, but his fingernail stopped scraping. Jane observed him for four seconds, listened inwards, then asked, “Would physical contact help?”
Another three seconds. Then he nodded.
She approached him quietly, gently, and placed a hand on his shoulder. When he inhaled deeply, she put her arms around him from behind, guiding him back against her chest. He relaxed into her embrace almost immediately, and his hands came up to hold her arm where it rested across his chest.
“I know you are frightened,” she said, adjusting her pitch to almost a whisper. “That’s okay. I’ll guide you through and show you that most of the stories are untrue, and all of them are sensationalised.”
She felt him exhale. He leaned a little more heavily against her.
“I know they’re just stories,” he whispered eventually. “About people not waking up again.”
“Just stories, yes. But real in your mind.“ She felt his heartbeat against her arm. She liked that – a soft connection between them, so alive.
Alan said, “I read in the instructions … about those moving pictures? Like drama sims? That you can get trapped in?”
“Dreams,” Jane said, softening her tone further. “Yes, you may dream. It’s a natural part of sleep. And many people enjoy the experience.“
“Being trapped in a sim?”
“In a very pleasant one, sometimes. But you are correct, you may not be able to control how quickly you come out of it. And not every dream is pleasant. But that’s why I’m here. I will make certain you do not stay in a dream you don’t like.”
Alan turned slightly, just enough to look at her. “How?”
“If necessary, I’ll wake you. But I think you will sleep just fine.”
He shifted back, and this time, Jane registered more of his weight against her.
“What’s it going to feel like?” he asked. “Falling asleep?”
“I’ve heard it described in many ways. Like sinking down into the earth, or into warm water. One person called it an embrace waiting for her. Others have said it’s like falling – but you learn someone’s there to catch you. For yet others, things just go dark straight away. Once you are asleep, you don’t notice the time passing. The next thing you know, you’re already coming back.”
“It’s hard to imagine.”
“I know. That’s why you’re scared. And it’s okay to be. But you will get through it, and you won’t be alone.”
She continued speaking until, suddenly, his chin dropped; a split second later he shook himself awake again.
“It’s starting,” he said, and his whole body went rigid.
Jane tightened her embrace. “That’s all right. I’ve got you.”
It went on for a long time. They spoke quietly until Alan’s voice drifted off and his head nodded forward. Then another start would tear him back into awareness;, he tensed against her, and she held him and whispered. She began to stroke his shoulder.
He grew heavier.
At 23:43, Jane said, “Let’s sit down. Just here, on the floor.” She supported him, and he didn’t resist.
At 23:58, he began to cry. About two-thirds of them did that, though only around thirty-five per cent with this kind of intensity. When he began to shake, Jane drew him into a soft rocking, back and forth, back and forth. “I’m here,” she whispered. “It’s okay to let yourself drift to sleep.”
But his body kept jerking back into alertness. So at 00:23, Jane said, “Let’s get you to bed.”
He followed her, and they sat on the edge together, almost close enough to touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, wiping his face. “I thought I’d do better than this.”
“Don’t apologise for tears,” Jane said. “Or for being afraid. It just means that your body is telling the truth. Which is … very human.”
That brought the flicker of a smile to his face. “Thank you. I guess.”
Jane said, “I think you will make a very good restored.”
“You know, I think you would have made a good one, too.”
She smiled, a little. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence for a while. Alan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in an effort to stay still. Jane tapped into her datastream to see the latest prognosis. It had dropped again, this time to 52.3 per cent. She shifted a little closer to Alan until their arms touched. A system alert glowed before her eyes:
Proximity limit breached.
She knew the protocol, of course – once a subject had engaged with the bed unit, even just to sit on it, the linking of hands was the only physical contact still permitted.
But she felt his longer exhale as soon as their arms brushed. And a moment later, his prognosis adjusted to 56.7 per cent.
Jane dismissed the alert and leaned closer.
When he nodded off next, she said, “Try lying down.”
She guided him. He lay on his back, hands at his sides and clenched into fists.
Jane placed a hand on his wrist. “You can lie like this if you like, but this isn’t an examination. People sleep in all kinds of positions. You might prefer your side. Or even your stomach.”
He stared at the ceiling for three more heartbeats – she registered them in his wrist – then rolled onto his side, facing her. Both hands found their way up beside his face, as she had seen so many times.
“That’s better,” she said, lowering her voice further. “Would you like me to stay?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. “Please.”
“All right.” She laid one hand down on the sheets, right next to his. And indeed, his fingers brushed up against hers a moment later. Carefully, she threaded her fingers through his.
“It’s okay to let go,” Jane said. “I’ll keep you safe.”
But he didn’t let go. He tried – Jane could almost feel how hard he tried. He went through the breathing patterns he’d learnt. His hand kept tightening around hers. He even closed his eyes for seconds at a time, only to force them open again.
Not good. At this point, drifting into sleep should have been easier. The prognosis hovered at 49.0 per cent.
“Alan.” Jane leaned closer, triggering her internal proximity alert again. “Hey. Can you look at me?”
His eyes flicked up to hers, large and close to tears. “I don’t know … how,” he whispered.
“Do you have any sense of what you need?” Jane whispered back. “To make it easier?”
He shook his head, but then words came anyway. “Just to … not be alone?”
The fluctuation in Jane’s pattern was so immediate that it overrode her trained responses for 0.14 seconds. She blinked, calibrated, then asked, “Would you like me to come closer?”
He didn’t quite look at her, but he nodded.
Jane slipped one arm behind his back and lowered herself until her forehead almost touched his temple. Her hair would have fallen over him if she hadn’t tied it up. “I’m here,” she said quietly. “You can sleep.”
He was warm. Breathing against her arm. So close.
Her pattern flared up again, longer this time – longer than it ever had – and Jane squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to block out sensory input.
Proximity limit breached.
Operator neutrality deviation.
The fluctuation stabilised. Jane dismissed the alerts and checked her datastream. 67.3 per cent and rising. “That’s it,” she whispered. “You’re doing well.”
He exhaled slowly, and then he began to cry again – quiet, almost gentle sobs that opened him up, so completely that Jane could almost reach into the core of his emotion, still so incomprehensible to her.
She reached up to stroke his hair. “You’re safe.” Her pattern fluttered again. Jane hesitated, considered protocol. Then she added in a whisper, “Matthew.”
His breath stilled for a moment, and he looked up at her. “Is that – ”
“Shh,” she whispered, allowing the hint of a smile. “You know I’m not supposed to say.” And when he wouldn’t look away from her face, she said, “Go to sleep, Matthew. You’re not alone.”
He exhaled softly, inhaled, exhaled. His breath settled, and this time, when his eyes fluttered shut, they didn’t open again. Jane stayed close, listening to his body – the softening of his muscles, the slowing of his heart rate, the way his fingers opened.
Her pattern fluttered wildly. So close. The closest she might ever come.
She stayed until he was safely in deep sleep. Only then did she gently draw the blanket up over his shoulders. The plush fox sat nearby like a sentinel, watching over this new-found sleep.
It was 00:51.