I can't sleep has taken on an entirely different meaning.

I learned in biology that dolphins sleep with one hemisphere of their brain at a time. They use the other half to come up for air. Otherwise, they would suffocate while they sleep. If I fall asleep with my whole brain, Dee is going to come rip my lungs out. Then I'll suffocate while I sleep. Like a dolphin.

I've taken to holding my eyes open forcibly with my hands. I've also discovered a new life hack: if I hold them open one at a time, they won't get dried out, and it's almost like I'm half-sleeping.

Like a dolphin.

With the hand that isn't holding my eye open, I scroll through search results for "how to keep people out of your house." The Internet seems to agree that the answer is "buy a burglar alarm," but I don't think Nurse Dan will let me install a burglar alarm in my hospital room.

In a crap shoot, I search for "how to keep people out of your house with magic," but the spells and runes pictured in the images for "anti-burglary runes" and "keep-away hexes" are so complicated they make my sleep-deprived mind spin.

I never got to take Witchwork before dropping out of college; the class was always full. Everyone wanted to try their hand at a little novelty spellcraft, thinking they'd be levitating entire turkeys by next Thanksgiving.

But here's the thing about Witchwork: its power-to-complexity curve is way unbalanced.

Most people give up once they realize Witchwork is less about love potions and frogspawn and more about diligently tracing all the heavenly movements of Aldebaran on a massive canvas in order to dispel kitchen odors. That is an actual project Dawn's boyfriend Nick did for senior-level Witchwork, and it took three months. Witchwork is actually really boring stuff, and it doesn't fit in a can as easily as ninety-nine cent air freshener.

I wonder if Dee is going to use some fancy spellwork to remove my organs, or just a good old-fashioned knife. I'm certain she's a witch. You can tell someone's a witch like you can tell someone's a weightlifter. You just kinda know when you look at them. Despite my terror, I can't help the wriggle of curiosity in my belly.

I know that witches aren't even supposed to be that powerful; most of their cultural panache is a product of superstition. A witch can get really good at one or two things — like popping out a dent in a car door or predicting the weather — but doing it better and cheaper than a mechanic or a weather satellite is becoming increasingly impossible. Some out-there folks claim they met a witch who made them bald or turned their dog into a horse or controlled their mind to make them cheat on their wife, but they're usually the same people who would tell you in a heartbeat that they were abducted by aliens.

Aliens. Ridiculous.

I put down my phone and stop imagining knives. I allow myself a moment of bliss: both eyes closed, I flood with an inner peace that presses into me like a hug, heavy like blankets. It pulls me deep within myself and beckons me to sleep. My eyelids dance with a flutter of indiscernible, soft, black shapes that look strangely like feathers.

One, two, three, four seconds is all I allow myself before forcing my eyes open. Some motion outside catches my attention and I jump. I recognize the woman and scowl at her through the blinding snow. Dee has been snooping my room on an hourly schedule, standing in the parking lot like it's not twenty degrees outside. She sees me looking and waves, then puts her hands to her head and makes rocking motions.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I snatch my phone and dial 911.

The operator mumbles a greeting. I glance at the clock. It's 4:11.

"Hello," I say, trying to sound like someone you'd take seriously. "I am being stalked by an elderly woman in the parking lot of my hospital."

A brief silence at the other end.

"... Ma'am, I think you already called."

"Oh," I say, brain swimming. I did. I remember that now. "She's still here."

The woman heaves an exaggerated sigh. I think it's to make me feel bad. I refuse.

"We'll see if we can send someone over," she drawls. I can't remember if it's the same thing she told me last time, but I thank her and hang up. Maybe she gets calls like this all the time. Maybe I'm the sixty-third person tonight who's called 911 about an old lady stalker. Maybe... nobody will believe me.

But my old woman is real, I protest internally, lids drooping. My mind knits together delusions of a cabal of old women in floral dresses stalking hospital patients for their organs. The old women take the severed offerings and run off into a dark wood, where they toss the bloody meat into a brambly pyre and set it ablaze. My ears prickle with crackling and cackling and the shuffling of heavy wings as something dark, massive, settles around me, wrapping me in unending night...

I slap the wall above my head, aiming for the nurse call button with pinpoint accuracy. My aim has improved over the course of the night. The button emits a horrible, cloud-of-angry-hornets buzz and I drink it in like a quad-shot of espresso, feeling my brain jolt with some semblance of alertness. My secret weapon.

Nurse Dan appears in my room, a side effect that prevents me from using the buzzer as often as I'd like. He looks haggard. The wing has been busy all night, nurses running around and wheeling things, sometimes wheeling things with people strapped to them. One of my first nights here, Dan told me that on snowy nights, the ICU doubles its usual intake due to slips and car crashes.

"Gracie," Dan says, massaging his face. "At some point, I am just going to wheel your bed to the nurse's station."

"I would like that," I say honestly. Could I convince him to do that?

No, he's joking, I remind myself. You're too tired and you've forgotten how jokes work.

"What do you need?" He leans against the door, looking as desperate for sleep as I am.

I can't pretend to want more Jello. I have eaten so much Jello tonight. The evidence litters the tray at my bedside. It is absolute Jello carnage. For a moment, I consider telling him about Dee appearing in my room earlier tonight, but I can't risk it. Nurse Dan is one of my only friends in here.

"I'm... lonely?"

"Is that why I heard you call 911 earlier?"

"... Yes?"

Dan, bless his heart, gives me an understanding little smile. "I've got a few other patients to attend, but I'll see if I can send someone over in the meantime to give you a little company."

I want to ask if they can watch me while I sleep, but that might be a little much. I smile back and nod as he exits the room quietly. As soon as he's out of sight, I hear him scamper back down the tiled hall.

The usual hush falls over my room. In a moment of self-pity, I realize that I am lonely. Over the past week, Dee is the only in-person company I've had who isn't being paid to hang out with me. With the snow falling outside, I feel like I'm swaddled in a little sterilized room, woozily sinking beneath the sea. Like a dolphin.

When I look out the window again, I see that Dee is back, but she's not watching me. She's talking to a police officer. Dee makes a strange motion with her arms, then locks her fingers together. The officer stands up straight and walks away, straight into a pole. My mouth drops open. The cop recovers quickly and climbs into his car, throws it into reverse, and drives backwards out of the parking lot. The superstitions immediately seem less funny, and the curiosity moves over for a second helping of dread.

Dee watches the squad car retreat, her fingers laced together sweetly. She looks up at me, unfolds her hands, and wags a stern finger. Nice try.