The mattress

Nightmare

I

White.

Very bright white. Coming from above. Fluorescent light. The hum of it.

Astra opened her eyes.

The ceiling was a ceiling she knew. Facility, Building B. Third floor.

Her body would not move. Not restraints — chemical. The kind of thing that slows neural conduction. She could feel her limbs. The commands just didn't arrive.

Someone was talking.

"...response is sluggish, but consciousness is clear. We can start."

Something cold pressed against the back of her neck. Electrode pads. Arranged down the line of her spine.

"Starting at 0.3."

Like a needle going into her neck. Fast. Brief.

"Proceed. 0.5."

The prick turned to a burn.

"Her threshold is still significantly lower than baseline human range. Note that."

Then the number kept climbing.

0.8. Her back arched. Not because she meant it to — the muscle did it on its own.

"Interesting. Involuntary movement at this intensity. Note that down."

1.2. 1.5. 2.0.

Between each shock, she heard them confer. Calm. The way you'd discuss the parameters of a machine.

"This threshold is higher than the last one."

"Possible adaptation."

Her awareness began to drift. Not unconsciousness — the drugs wouldn't allow that. A kind of detachment. As though her mind had crawled out of her body and stood beside it, watching.

But the pain stayed.

2.5.

A sound finally escaped her. Forced up from somewhere low in her throat, warped.

She heard it and decided it wasn't hers.

"Heart rate 142. Should we pause?"

"No. Continue."

3.0.

The dark crept in from the edges of her vision.

She heard something tear. Not bone. Something else.

---

II

A different room.

A helmet lowered over her. Half-shell. Electrodes against the scalp inside. Her task was to pull a specific frequency out of the electromagnetic noise.

Level one. Easy. She got it right.

Level five. Her head started to hurt. She still got it right.

Level eight. A spike of pain at the temples. Something warm running down inside her nose.

"Do you need a break?"

"No."

If she stopped now, the data would be incomplete. Incomplete meant no reward.

Last time she'd held out to level ten, and they'd given her thirty minutes outdoors. Sun. Wind. A real sky.

Thirty minutes. In here, that was a luxury.

"Continue."

Level ten.

The signal came in like a tidal wave. Her vision blacked out. A high ringing in her ears.

But she was searching. She kept searching.

Because if she found it, there would be a reward.

"Correct. Very good."

Something shifted in her chest.

Like a dog hearing its owner say *good girl*.

---

III

Astra woke.

Dark. Quiet.

The ceiling wasn't white. It was wood. With cracks in it.

She was lying in a bed. Her own bed.

Her heart was racing. Her hands were shaking.

She sat up and looked at them.

Not because of the pain from the dream. That was only memory.

She remembered her sixteen-year-old self, and the warmth that had opened in her chest when she heard praise.

That warmth made her feel sick.

She got out of bed.

The floor was cold. Concrete. Rough.

She went to the kitchen and ran herself a glass of water. Drank it.

The water was cold. Passing down her throat, it gave her back her body. Solid. Present.

She stood at the window. Outside was black. No moon.

Very quiet. No fluorescent hum.

---

IV

She started to listen.

Not on purpose. Habit.

Then his heartbeat.

In the other room. Through the wall. 54 bpm. Steady. Slow.

The heartbeat of someone asleep.

She stood in the kitchen and listened to it.

54. 54. 54.

He never praised her.

He was simply there. Quietly. Asking for nothing.

Her own pulse began to slow.

She set the glass in the sink and walked to his door.

---

The door wasn't shut. None of the doors here were ever shut.

She could see in. The bed. Books. A chair. He lay with his back to the door.

She could hear him breathing. Light. Slow.

She didn't know why she was standing there.

Not wanting anything. Not expecting anything. Only —

that heartbeat.

Through a wall and from a doorway were not the same thing.

A little closer. A little more real.

---

At last she went in.

Soundless.

The floor was concrete. Coarse. Cold.

There was only a blanket draped over the back of the chair. An old one, dark blue, frayed at the hem.

She pulled it down and spread it on the floor. By the bed. Close.

Then she lay down.

The concrete was hard. The blanket was thin. The cold seeped up from below.

She didn't care.

She closed her eyes and listened to the heartbeat.

54. 54. 54.

Close. Just above her. An arm's length.

---

V

"Astra."

She opened her eyes.

Eitan was awake. She didn't know since when.

He'd turned onto his side and was looking down at her over the edge of the bed.

In the dark she couldn't read his face. But she could hear his heart.

56. A little faster than before. Still even.

He didn't ask why. Didn't ask what had happened.

He only looked at her.

Then he shifted back toward the wall and made a space at the edge.

"Come here."

---

She didn't move.

Not because she didn't want to. Because she didn't know what came after the moving.

He didn't push.

He held the position. On his side. Waiting.

Then he said it again. Softer.

"Come here."

She sat up.

The blanket slid off her.

She moved to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight.

Then she lay down.

The bed was narrow. Two people on it, all but touching.

She turned to face him.

---

VI

In the dark she made out the shape of him. Hair pushed up at odd angles by sleep, the clean ridge of his nose.

He was near. Near enough that she felt the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The scent of him.

He didn't speak.

Then he put out an arm.

Something in her body tensed. A flicker.

He moved slowly. So she could see it coming. So she could say no.

His arm went around her shoulders, drawing her in.

No pressure in it. No grip.

Just — there.

Her forehead settled against his collarbone.

She could hear his heart. Not the way she usually heard things — directly, with her ear, against his chest.

Right there. At her ear. Around her.

---

But her hands didn't know where to go.

They hovered between them, afraid to touch and afraid not to.

Eventually she rested one on his chest. Palm against the worn cotton of his T-shirt, the rise and fall under it.

He didn't move.

His arm stayed where it was. Not tight. Not letting go.

---

VII

"Nightmare?" he murmured at last.

The word carried in his chest. She felt it through her forehead.

"Yes."

He didn't ask anything more.

His arm tightened. Only slightly.

"Sleep."

---

She closed her eyes.

56. 56. 56.

Slower than her own. Steadier.

Her breathing found the rhythm. In. Out.

Her heart began to slow.

She didn't know how long it took her.

She slept.

No dreams.

---

VIII

Morning.

When the light came through the window, she woke first.

He was still asleep. His arm was still around her — looser, but there.

She didn't move.

She studied his face from this close.

In sleep, the line between his brows had smoothed. His lips were slightly parted. His breathing was light.

She rarely got to look at him this way.

Awake, he was always working something out. His eyes were always somewhere else, his face marked with the long habit of concentration.

Not now. Not this face.

Now it was just a face with nothing on guard. The deep-set features. The lashes unexpectedly long. His mouth wasn't thin the way she'd assumed — hard to imagine it shaping the sentences that took an argument apart and left someone with nothing to say.

She caught herself wondering what he'd looked like twenty years ago, before his brow had been carved through with those lines.

Then she realized she preferred the lines.

She closed her eyes again.

Not to sleep. Just to stay a little longer.

Here. In this narrow, too-soft bed, with someone else in it.

---

IX

He woke.

She felt his breathing change. His heart went from 54 to 58.

He didn't move.

Maybe he thought she was still asleep.

She opened her eyes.

He was watching her.

Close enough that she could see the striations in his irises. Brown-green. Touched with grey.

"Morning," he said.

The hoarseness of just waking.

"Morning," she said.

They held the look a moment.

Then his arm slid away. Slowly.

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

---

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Yes."

He sat up and got out of bed, crossed to the door.

Halfway there he stopped, not turning around.

"You can stay," he said. "If you want."

Then he was out of the room.

She stayed where she was.

The bed was still warm where he'd been.

She put her hand there.

Warm.

---

(Part 01 End)

Agreement

-----

I

The days that followed, nothing changed.

Astra still slept in her own room. Eitan still slept in his.

The corridor was short. Ten steps between their doors.

But ten steps was ten steps.

-----

II

On the third night she had another nightmare.

A different one. Not the facility. Water. Very deep water. She was sinking, with no way to tell which way was up.

When she woke, she found she was already standing at his door.

She didn't remember walking there.

His door was open. He lay on his side, his back to her. His breathing was even.

She stood a while.

Then she went back to her own room.

-----

III

The next morning.

She was cutting vegetables in the kitchen. He was reading.

Quiet. The usual kind.

Then he said:

"You came to my door last night."

The knife paused.

"You were awake?"

"I'm a light sleeper."

She kept cutting.

"Why didn't you come in?" he asked.

She tipped the vegetables into the pan. The oil hissed.

"I don't want to disturb your sleep," she said.

"You disturb my sleep more when you stand at the door and then leave."

She looked up.

His expression was flat. Not an accusation.

-----

IV

"Sometimes I don't know where I am when I wake up," she said.

"I know."

"I might—" she stopped. "React badly."

"How badly?"

She gave the vegetables a stir.

"I once nearly killed someone who touched me while I was disoriented."

He said nothing.

She waited for *never mind* or *let's see*.

Instead he asked: "What kind of touch?"

"Grabbing. From behind. On the wrist."

"So don't grab you from behind, and don't touch your wrists."

She looked over.

His face hadn't changed. No flinch. No pause.

"That's it?" she asked.

"Is there more?"

"...No pressure from above. No sudden movements. No blocking the exit."

"Okay."

"You're taking notes?"

"I have a good memory."

-----

V

She turned the heat down.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want this?"

He considered it.

"You might walk outside. You could get hurt."

"That's not a reason."

"It's a reason."

"It's not the reason."

He set the book down.

A long pause.

Then he said:

"I slept better when you were there last time."

-----

VI

She didn't answer.

She turned back and gave the vegetables another stir.

"This needs something," she said.

"There's za'atar in the cabinet. Left side."

She found the jar and opened it, brought it to her nose. Thyme, sesame, and some sourness she couldn't name.

She scattered a little in.

"This is different from anything I've had before," she said. "What's the sour part?"

"Sumac. Dried berries."

"Hm."

She turned off the burner. Split it between two plates.

"Next time I have a nightmare," she said, "I'll come to your room."

She set the plate in front of him.

He looked at the food, then at her.

"Thank you," he said.

She wasn't sure what for. The food. Or something else.

She didn't ask.

-----

(02 End)

The Mattress

---

I

Nadav was eating breakfast when the call came.

"I need a mattress."

No hello. No small talk. Very Eitan.

"The one I got you is broken?"

"Too small."

Nadav took a bite of bread and chewed.

"It's a single bed. You're a 'single' person. What's the problem?"

A pause on the other end.

Nadav stopped chewing.

"...Eitan."

"A double."

"A double."

"Yes."

"You want a double mattress."

"That's what I said."

Nadav set the bread down.

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I need a mattress. Can you get one?"

"Of course I can get one. I just want to know—"

"Thanks. This week?"

Eitan hung up.

Nadav looked at his screen. Call duration: 47 seconds.

He sighed.

---

II

Three days later.

Nadav drove the beat-up pickup up the mountain. In the bed was a double mattress. Secondhand, but in decent shape. The springs still had life in them, no holes in the fabric.

He knew a man from the old army base whose guesthouse was replacing its beds. Good timing.

The road was rough. The mattress bounced around behind him.

He thought about Eitan.

Nearly thirty years he'd known him. The man had moved more than once — Jerusalem to Galilee to this falling-down house on a hill now. Always sleeping alone. Never an exception.

His life held only books, research, the occasional academic quarrel. His bedroom was small as a cell, the bed a single, too narrow to turn over in.

Thirty years. Alone.

Now he wanted a double mattress.

Nadav shook his head, and couldn't stop a grin pulling at one side.

---

III

He arrived in the afternoon.

Astra was in the vegetable garden. She glanced at him, nodded, then went back to what she was doing.

Eitan came out of the house.

"You're here."

"You can see that."

"Need help carrying it?"

"That would be nice. This thing isn't light."

Together they dragged the mattress off the truck. As they walked, Nadav took the measure of the old house. Stone walls, wooden window frames, books everywhere. More than last time — more lived in.

"Where to?"

"The room on the right."

They hauled the mattress through the narrow front door, and nearly jammed it on the turn.

"You couldn't find a room with a wider door?" Nadav grumbled.

"It's quiet here."

"An ambulance couldn't even get through here."

"Then don't get hurt."

They carried the mattress into the room.

Nadav looked around.

The room was small. An old bed frame, the single mattress on it that ought to have been replaced. A chair. A lamp. Books.

And a blanket, folded on the floor, at the side of the bed.

He stared at it.

Eitan followed his gaze, and said nothing.

---

IV

They dragged out the old mattress and laid the new one down.

The frame was a little small. The edges of the mattress hung over. But it would do.

"Your bed frame needs replacing too," Nadav said.

"This one works."

"This one was made for a single bed."

"Now it has a double mattress on it, so now it's a double bed frame."

Nadav looked at him.

Eitan's face gave away nothing at all.

"You know," Nadav said, "normal people would explain at this point."

"Explain what?"

"Why you suddenly need a double mattress."

"I told you. The old one was too small."

"You've slept alone for almost thirty years. Suddenly it's too small?"

Eitan went to the window and looked out.

"Do you ever feel," he said, "that asking too many questions is an unnecessary social behavior?"

"No. I feel that asking questions is how I show that I care about you."

"I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. You look better than you have in the past ten years. I just want to hear you say it."

Silence.

Eitan kept looking out the window.

"She has nightmares," he said. Very quietly.

Nadav waited.

"She wakes up in the middle of the night. Sometimes she comes to my room."

"And then?"

"Then she sleeps on the floor."

Nadav glanced at the folded blanket.

"The floor."

"Yes."

"And you want her to sleep on the bed."

"The floor is too cold."

Nadav held back a laugh.

"So your solution is to buy a bigger bed."

"It's the most logical solution."

"Have you considered just telling her 'you can sleep on the bed'?"

"She wouldn't listen. She would feel like it's—" Eitan stopped. "She needs to choose it herself. Not have me invite her."

"So you buy a big bed, and wait for her to notice the bed got bigger, and decide for herself whether to get on it."

"Yes."

"Instead of saying one sentence."

"Yes."

Nadav sighed.

"You two," he said, "are the worst communicators I've ever met."

"We communicate."

"You communicate nonsense. The important things you say with mattress sizes."

Eitan turned to look at him.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No. I'm just stating facts."

---

V

They came out of the room.

Astra was no longer in the garden. There were sounds in the kitchen. A tap running. A glass.

"Water?" Eitan asked.

"Sure."

They went into the kitchen.

Astra was at the sink. She gave Nadav a nod. He returned it.

She poured three glasses and handed one to Nadav, one to Eitan, kept one.

Nadav took a sip.

"So," he said, "has your sleep quality improved?"

Astra's face didn't change.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, nothing. I just heard that someone at night would—"

"Nadav," Eitan cut in.

"What?"

"Drink your water."

Nadav laughed. Drank.

Astra looked at Eitan, then at Nadav.

"He told you?"

"He said you sleep on the floor. I think that's a waste — he has a bed right there."

"That bed is a single."

"Not anymore."

Astra let that sit.

Then she set her glass down and walked out of the kitchen.

Nadav listened to her footsteps fade down the hall.

A few seconds later, a sound from the bedroom. Someone sitting down on the mattress, testing the give.

Nadav looked at Eitan.

Eitan looked at his glass.

"You can go now," he said.

"I just got here."

"You delivered the mattress."

"I haven't finished my water."

"Take it with you."

Nadav drained the glass in one go and set it on the table.

"Fine," he said. "I'm leaving."

He went to the door and stopped.

"Eitan."

"Mm."

"Thirty years."

"I know."

"I'm happy for you."

Eitan didn't answer. But his shoulders came down a little. A small thing. Nadav knew it when he saw it.

"Next time you need something," Nadav said, "tell me in advance. Don't just call and say 'I need a mattress' without even a please."

"I said thanks."

"That was before you hung up. Doesn't count."

"I'm saying it now. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Nadav opened the door and the sunlight came in.

"By the way," he said, "the bed frame really does need replacing. The size is wrong."

"I'll handle it."

"No you won't."

"Then you handle it for me."

Nadav laughed.

"Next week," he said. "I'll look around."

He left.

---

VI

Eitan stood in the kitchen, listening to the pickup's engine fade off down the hill.

Then he heard sounds from the bedroom. Footsteps. Coming to the doorway.

"He's gone?" Astra's voice.

"Gone."

"He talks a lot."

"He's always like that."

Silence.

"Is the mattress okay?" he asked.

"Softer than the floor."

"That's the minimum requirement."

"The springs still have bounce. The fabric doesn't smell. Acceptable."

"Glad it passed your inspection."

Silence again.

Then she said: "You should have just said it."

"Said what?"

"That I could sleep on the bed. You didn't need to buy a new one."

"The old springs were really broken."

"I've listened to that bed. The springs weren't broken."

He said nothing.

"Why didn't you just say it?" she asked.

He thought about it.

"Because if I said it, you would feel like I was giving you permission."

"So what?"

"You don't need my permission. You need to decide for yourself."

The silence held for a long time.

Then she came back into the kitchen. Stood in front of him.

"You think too much," she said.

"Probably."

"But —" a pause. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For thinking too much."

She took the empty glass from the table and set it in the sink.

Then she went back out to the garden.

Eitan stayed in the kitchen, watching her through the window.

The mattress fit. The frame was wrong, but it would hold.

It was enough.

---

(End)