In the moments just before the crack of dawn, before the regular daytime sounds began, she laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was white, made of rectangular panels that had an embossed pattern of straight lines. She tried counting the lines on each panel, losing track after every ten or so. She noticed that one panel looked a little different from the rest. It had a sad little piece peeling piece of plaster hanging down. It looked like it was hanging on to the ceiling for dear life, defying gravity for as long as it could.

“I should put you out of your misery,” she said to the peeling piece of plaster, “Get it over and done with. You don’t have to worry about hanging on, not knowing if the next moment will be the one you finally lose your grip, drop down, and go splat.”