I went around and locked all the doors. Then I was sure I’d forgotten a couple, so I went around and checked them all again. This time I counted. Six doors checked, and it came to me that six was a good number. Like eight is a good number. They’re friendly numbers. Warm. Not cold, like five or…you know, seven. I relaxed a little, but I still went around one last time. Still six. After that I thought I’d be able to sleep, but I couldn’t. Not even with an Ambien. I got up and counted all the books in my bedroom bookcase. There were ninety-three. That’s a bad number, and not just because it’s odd. Divide ninety-three by three and you come out with thirty-one: thirteen backwards. So I got a book from the little bookcase in the hall. But ninety-four is only a little better, because nine and four add up to thirteen. There are thirteens everywhere in this world of ours. You don’t know. Anyway, I added six more books to the bedroom bookcase. I had to cram but I got them in. A hundred is okay. Fine, in fact. I was heading back to bed, then started wondering about the hall bookcase. If I’d, you know, robbed Peter to pay Paul. So I counted those, and that was all right: fifty-six. The numbers add to eleven, which is odd but not the worst odd, and fifty-six divides to twenty-eight, a good number. After that I could sleep. I think I had bad dreams, but I don’t remember them.
