Dr. NoSleep

Too many goddamn demons.

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Cigarette number four now, or was it five?

He was losing count faster now, harder to concentrate.

He had been able to tell time in cigarettes smoked, and at his last estimation, a standard pack might last him a good six hours if he was careful.

The bedstand's digital clock now sat in the trash can.

God knows that they must have tampered with it somehow, some way.

You could put microphones in anything nowadays, really.

Same thing with the TV.

He had thought it safe to watch here, but during Good Morning America, the host, the one with the suit who smiled like a cheap car salesman, blinked a message for him like a captured prisoner of war.

The TV now sat unplugged and facing the wall where they couldn't see him.

How long have I been here

What motel was this again?

He sat on the end of the sheetless bed and counted backward from cigarette packs and granola bars until he settled on concrete names.