Postkort fra 2040: The Conspiracy at Four-Fifty
Sofie,
04:50. Feeding Vera. Report from the front:
- The sleep-coach thing Anders' mother gave us has a "night summary." It projects a little pastel mountain range on the ceiling. Last night's summary said the twins had a restful, well-regulated night.
- The twins did not have a restful, well-regulated night.
- I have concluded the device is lying to protect itself.
But here is the actual news. Otto has started faking sleep. Properly faking it — the whole performance, slack mouth, theatrical breathing — until the room-light dims to its bedtime amber, and then one eye opens. And he checks whether I saw. Sofie, he checks. Eight months old and already running counter-surveillance on the household. I laughed so hard I had to leave the room, which of course woke Vera, which is how I ended up here writing to you.
Out the window the harbour bath is already full. Six in the water, black as coffee, howling. Lunatics. I envy them ferociously.
New theory: the machines will be fine. It's the babies who will out-manoeuvre us.
Come in October. Bring nothing. Sleep is not a gift you can wrap.
E (begge sover, mirakel)
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