I brush her temple with the back of three fingers; a delicately clenched half-fist gliding down her forehead, over and under her brow and into the cushion of her cheek. Her lids close and this time stay closed. It’s like turning the slat of a blind shut in slow motion, and this torpid descent will repeat its fall several times yet, starting where wisps of brown hair kink and curl above her eyes and finishing only a couple of inches and six or seven seconds later at that round bulge of flesh. Earlier, fatigue had moved the same hand with less care, with greater speed, with not enough feeling. The slat had refused to remain shut. But at this rhythm, she can’t deny her own tiredness any longer.