The clock sitting atop the cluttered beside table reads 00:00; the red glow emanating from it illuminates the figure curled up on the bed. His legs are entwined with the quilt while his bare torso is uncovered and glistens with beads of sweat. His breaths are slow and regular, his eyes closed but his mind is racing and sleep won’t find him. He listens to the sounds that are louder than ever in the dead of night. The hum of motors outside on the street; fewer in number than in the middle of the day but still there. The baby crying in the apartment below; the mother trying to lull it back to sleep. The couple upstairs arguing; both accusing the other of having an affair. Mr. Jefferson’s TV turned up much too loud at the far end of the hall. He turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. His fringe falls into his eyes and he absentmindedly pushes it back. He pauses with his hand in his hair; a memory of his brother surfacing in his mind. He can hear his voice saying ‘Your hair’s getting a little long there, Wren, do you want me to cut it all off?’ This was followed by a chase around the house which only ended when their mother got home and told them to come help with dinner. They’d lost their mother only a couple of years later and since then they’d only had each other. Now, he was alone and he knew there was something off about his brothers disappearance; someone or something had taken him and he was going to find out what had happened. “It would probably help if you could get some sleep, Wren,” he says to himself eyes still glued to the ceiling. Then, in the corner of his eye. Something moved. He sat up sharply, scanning the room for any other signs of movement. In one hand he held a gun and in the other his old hunting knife. He shifted slowly to the edge of the bed, his eyes moving rapidly; nearly at the same rate as his heart. The lamp light wasn’t as bright as he would have hoped when he flipped the switch but it helped assure him that there was nothing there. “That can stay on,” he said gesturing to the lamp as he fell back against the bed. He stashed both the gun and the knife back under his pillow and curled up facing the spot where he thought he’d seen something. His eyes started to feel heavy and he pulled the quilt up and over him. “I miss you, Jay,” he whispered into the light. He felt a phantom hand cart through his hair. His eyes drifted shut and sleep found him. ‘I got you, little brother, rest now.’