If it weren’t for the warm blue recessed lights in the hall, I’d think we were suffering another power outage. The only other explanation is someone manually turned off the sensors in our room, though I can’t imagine Camus doing it, not after stubbing his toe on the way to the bathroom last week. I know it wasn’t me. Once I’m out, I sleep like the dead. Lights don’t bother me like they do him, so I’d have no reason to mess with the settings. Without ambient light, it’s impossible to make out the bed, its potential Camus-shaped lump, or anything else in the room. The darkness is absolute. “Camus?” I call out, receiving no reply, and my worry spikes again. Where the hell is he? I unwind the scarf I’ve worn around my throat all night and toss it in a ball into the corner of the room we’re currently using for laundry disposal. It reeks of sweat, and will need to be washed. I begin unbuttoning the wrists of my blouse, too, and, calling up a mental layout of the room, I stumble toward the bathroom, hoping the light there will work.
