Oliver checked his watch to see that only two minutes had passed. The internet had told him that 5-7 minutes was all it took. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered to himself. His ‘99 Ford Taurus was filled with old receipts and crunched up water bottles, and as he pushed the driver’s side seat as far back as it could go, the bottles crackled under him as though they were laughing. He couldn’t shake the thought that the bottles were mocking him. ‘Is that the delusion the internet had warned me about?’ He thought to himself. Three minutes had passed now. Oliver hated the hours between 3-and-5 AM because he imaged everyone but him was dreaming. ‘What are they dreaming of?’ He thought. Maybe flying. Maybe free falling. Whatever it was, Oliver wished he were one of them. The insomnia had gotten so bad the past few weeks that Oliver felt his waking life was one long dream — or a nightmare, rather. ‘Sex. They’re definitely dreaming about sex,’ he thought. This hour was usually met with tramadol and benzodiazepines to help Oliver at least dream of dreaming. This time around, though, Oliver lied back holding a hot cup of black coffee. He had fought the insomnia for so long that he had finally decided to embrace it. So tonight, he sipped from an old mug as a shortened piece of water hose hung over a slit on the driver’s side window. The other end of the hose was duct-taped to his Taurus’ exhaust pipe. Oliver could feel every rumble of the car’s engine as he drowned in a colorless sea of smoke in his enclosed garage. Four minutes had passed now. CRACKLE. CRACKLE. CLACK. The sound of falling tin cans came from the decade-old desk drawer sitting at the right of the garage. Oliver’s eyes shot open as if all the caffeine had hit him at once. ‘That’s definitely the delusion. It’s the delusion.’ His mind raced. Oliver forced his eyes back shut, convinced the burst of adrenaline couldn’t impede inevitable carbon monoxide poisoning. He took a deep breath. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. No, this couldn’t be a delusion. His eyes shot open again to the sight of a short silhouette on the hood of his car. Its eyes glimmered yellow, staring grimly into Oliver’s. ‘Is this real? Am I dead? Is this. . .God?’ His mind raced. In a fritz of panic, Oliver flipped the car’s high beams on, reflecting light back to the shadowy figure in front of him. This wasn’t God. It wasn’t a delusion either. It was. . .Orion? Opal? Oats? Yeah, that was it. Oats. Oats was the neighbors’ cat. Apparently, he was also a freeloading-feline that enjoyed hanging around Oliver’s garage. Five minutes had passed now. The poison must be taking some effect at this point. Oliver was surprised it was taking even this long. Now, as a six-year-old cat sat on the hood of his car, Oliver found himself in a dilemma. Suicidal, apparently, but a murderer? Oliver didn’t think so. ‘If I died here tonight, would I be remembered for my achievements or as the guy who killed the retired couple’s cat? Does exhaust kill cats too? Is it faster or slower?’ Oliver turned the ignition off and forced the car door open, ripping the hose off the exhaust pipe in the process. He quickly made his way to the garage door and pulled it open. “Oats!” He yelled, pointing his finger towards the open air as if to say ‘please, get the hell out of my garage.’ The cat jumped off the hood of Oliver’s car, confidently walking towards the haze of the neighborhood without a second to look back. Oliver, walking towards the comfort of his bedroom, felt so exhausted he could fall asleep at any minute.