Now, I know. And soon, so will everyone else.
11
Em
I wake before I understand why. My internal clock doesn’t misfire often, so something must be wrong. There’s no light from the wall panels waking me up. No alarm either. Usually, I wake up before it.
My eyes open to darkness, vision blurred without my glasses, and for a confused moment, I try to orient myself by routine alone.
I pat over to the other side of the bed and find it empty.
Routine’s absent. Alarm’s absent. Idris isn’t in bed beside me. He sleeps heavier than I do, so he wouldn’t have left unless there was an urgent matter to attend to.
My first instinct is to reach for my glasses on the nightstand, but before my hand even moves, Idris’ whispered voice reaches me from across the room. “It’s 4 a.m., Em.”
His voice sounds calm, but there’s strain beneath it. I blink to the sound and see shadowy figures by my door, dim light outlining them. Idris stands there. Two silhouettes stand with him.
I can’t make out the shapes, but I know those voices well.
Nil’s whisper reaches me first. “We shouldn’t wait to tell Em.”
Stan answers in a harsh whisper that’s somehow loud. “We’re not waiting. We’re tryingnotto freak her out.”
“You’re not whispering,” Nil murmurs, barely audible.
“I’m whisperingvery hard,” Stan insists.
I push up onto my elbows. The blanket slips, and only then do I recall I’m bare beneath. My hand moves, pulling the sheet up to cover myself.
My gaze is on the three of them when I speak, more certain than I feel. “What happened?”
The men freeze. So I reach for my glasses, feeling for them in the dark. My fingers find them on the nightstand, and I put them on.
But even in this dim lighting, I can barely see well. Though, it’s a bit clearer now, seeing Idris’ shoulders tense. He had the decency to slip on pants, when we were both bare before I fell asleep in his arms hours ago.
Nil’s in front of him, also without a shirt, arms crossed and whispering nearly silent to Idris, who’s nodding along.
All the while, Stan’s staring my way. He’s not wearing much but his hand’s covering his privates and the other hand is holding…a reddish shoe?
I repeat the question. “What happened?”
They go quiet again.
Then Idris looks at me. His face is composed, voice smooth, but there’s that strain again. “Em,” he says, “We’re sorry for waking you.”
I turn my gaze to Nil, whose eyes dart toward me, then away. But now that I’m waking up a bit more, I note how Nil breathes. It gives him away. Too fast. Too shallow.
“It’s alright,” Idris insists. He’s using the tone he saves for subjects in distress. “I’ll handle it, Em. Get some rest, please.”
He steps out of my quarters and lets the door slide closed.
Rest. At 4 a.m. With Nil’s pulse elevated enough that I can hear it from across the room, and Stan visibly restraining himself from shouting through a whisper.
Silence settles in the room, except for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the residual echo of Nil’s breathing still imprinted in my awareness.
My body registers several things at once. There’s slight tension beneath my ribs, a cold chill down my arms, yet heat wraps around my neck. None of it helps me determine the nature of the disruption. It only confirms that something significantly urgent has occurred.
But Idris told me to rest. And I trust his judgment. Whatever he’s handling now, he believes I’m more useful after sleep than during a state of partial awareness.
