Page 50 of White Noise

I try. I lie in bed with every light on and the television unplugged from the wall, staring at the ceiling until my eyes burn, but every time they start to close I see him standing in my kitchen again.

Silas.

Bare feet on my floor. That impossible heat coming off him. The low vibration under his skin. The way he looked at me when I finally stopped pretending my body wasn’t reacting to him.

By morning, I’ve checked every lock in the condo so many times that I stop trusting myself to remember whether I checked them at all.

I give up on sleep around seven, throw on an oversized black T-shirt and a pair of shorts, then drag myself downstairs looking like absolute shit. My makeup from last night is mostly gone except for whatever mascara survived under my eyes, my hair is twisted into a messy knot, and the hand that took the worst of the electrical discharge still feels tender when I flex it.

Breakfast is an energy drink.

Healthy.

I crack the can open and sit sideways on one of the stools at the kitchen island, bare feet hooked around the lower bar while I stare at the security panel across the room like it personally betrayed me.

Technically, it did.

The thing is still flashing errors.

Every few minutes I catch myself looking toward the television too.

It’s unplugged.

I checked.

Twice.

That doesn’t stop me from watching it anyway.

My phone rings just after eight.

SECURITY SUPPORT.

Fantastic.

I answer and put it on speaker, setting the phone beside the energy drink while I rub both hands over my face.

The first technician puts me on hold three times before transferring me to someone who sounds older and significantly less confident.

“I’m looking at the event history now,” he says. “You’re saying you were unable to leave the unit?”

I take a long drink before answering. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t activate lockdown mode manually?”

“I didn’t even know I had a lockdown mode.”

There’s a pause on his end.

Not a good one.

“That feature isn’t normally user-accessible.”

I slowly lower the can.

“That’s comforting.”

“I’m sorry?”