I’m currently seated at a computer terminal in a little, white, sterile room. There’s about a half dozen other computer terminals here, all facing the same way like a classroom. There are posters on the walls with medical information. Everyone in em looks happy and complacent. Zombies. This place is called Sleep HealthCenters, just outside of Boston. It’s a clinic for people with sleeping disorders. I’m feeling a little loopy from the eszopiclone, so if my writing gets all garbled just deal with it and I can edit it when I’m clear-headed. Things aren’t normal though. Tom— —Tom. “She hung herself.”