MacSood Bellemont sulked into the Office of Sleep Reclamation on the twelfth floor of the government building. It was spring and around the angered figure shone his mirror opposites. A cool breeze and a bird song floated through the window. The air was crisp, refreshing and hopeful. Below on the street, flowers were beginning to poke from the darkness, and green was returning to the trees and grass.
"Castigate daylight savings!" he snarled at the receptionist. "I want my hour back."
She motioned to him to have a seat. He sat, agitated, not wanting to think about what his lack of sleep had cost him. He felt grumpy, out of control. He preferred the peace of the night to the cold reality of day. His knees bounced, and his chin rested on his chest, his hands pressed flat together tightly.
"Mr. Bellemont, the doctor can see you now." The nurse led him down fiercely lit hallways. His eyes were slits refusing to adjust to the brightness. They turned into a dimly lit exam room with a two-way mirror on one wall and a bed in the middle. He lied down as she silently attached monitors and electrodes to his chest and forehead. He felt the anger and gloom drain from his body, his breathing slowed and soon he was asleep.
"Wake-Up!" his two-year-old daughter yelled in his ear.
"No," he replied sleepily, "Let me alone."
"Baby awake, Mommy awake, Ella awake," she went on. "Daddy, wake up," both of her hands grasped his shoulder and pulled him back and forth. "Daddy, wake up!" she yelled again.
Slowly MacSood forced his eyes open, and he turned to look at his daughter.
"Your hour is up, Mr. Bellemont," the nurse explained.
As he left, he pulled his collars up against the cold empty world.
