Nora Decides to Sleep

Nora was not the kind of girl who simply went to bed.

Other children, when their parents said "Goodnight," would close their eyes and drift off like little boats on a quiet lake. But Nora — Nora had things to do.

It started every night the same way. Her mom would tuck the blanket up to her chin, kiss her forehead, and whisper, "Goodnight, my little investigator." Then the door would close with a soft click, and Nora's eyes would go wide open.

Because that's when the investigating began.

Nora kept a small notebook under her pillow. It was purple with a rubber band around it, and inside were lists. So many lists. Nora loved lists more than she loved pudding, and she loved pudding a lot.

Tonight, she pulled the notebook out, clicked on her tiny flashlight, and sat up in bed.

"Investigation Number One," she whispered to herself. "The Ceiling."

Nora pointed her flashlight upward. There it was — the long, squiggly crack that stretched from the corner near her bookshelf all the way to the spot above her door. She had been tracking this crack for eleven nights. She tilted her head to the left. She tilted her head to the right.

"Still the same length," she noted. She wrote in her notebook: Ceiling crack. No change. Possible sleeping crack. Not growing.

She was relieved. A growing crack would have required further research, and she already had a very full evening planned.

"Investigation Number Two," she announced quietly. "Sounds."

Nora turned off her flashlight, closed her eyes, and listened.

Tick. Tick. Tick. That was the kitchen clock downstairs. She counted. Sixty ticks for one minute. She'd confirmed that four nights ago, but it was good to verify. A serious investigator always verified.

Then — shhhhhhh. The sound of water in the pipes. Someone was brushing their teeth. Probably her dad. Her mom always brushed her teeth first. Nora had documented this on page twelve.

Then — a tiny sound. Scritch. Scritch scritch.

Nora's ears perked up. She knew that sound. She opened her eyes and aimed her flashlight at the window.

There, on the outside of the glass, a moth was bumping and scratching against the window, trying to get to her light.

"Hello," Nora whispered. The moth had brown wings with two spots that looked like eyes. She'd seen this kind before. She wrote in her notebook: Brown moth with eye-spots. Third visit this week. Likes flashlight. Does not give up easily.

She turned the flashlight off so the moth could go about its evening. She understood being busy at night.

"Investigation Number Three. The Dog."

Nora leaned over the edge of her bed and pointed her flashlight at the floor. There was Biscuit, her old beagle, curled up on his round blue bed. His legs were twitching, and his nose was wiggling, and every few seconds he let out a tiny wuff sound.

"Dream-running," Nora noted. She'd seen this many times. Biscuit always dream-ran between nine-thirty and ten o'clock. She checked the clock on her nightstand. Nine forty-one. Right on schedule.

She wrote: Biscuit. Dream-running. Legs going fast. Probably chasing dream-squirrel again.

She watched him for a moment longer and smiled. Biscuit's ears flopped every time his legs kicked. It was, she had to admit, extremely cute. But she did not write that in her notebook, because "cute" was not a scientific observation.

"Investigation Number Four. The Shadows."

This was Nora's favorite investigation.

When cars drove down the street outside, their headlights sent shadows sliding across her bedroom wall. The shadows stretched and bent and transformed, and every single one was different.

She waited.

A car approached. Light crept through the window, and suddenly her bookshelf's shadow grew tall and thin, like a giant with long arms reaching across the wall. Then it shrank and melted away as the car passed.

Another car. This time, the shadow of her curtain rippled like ocean waves rolling across the ceiling.

Another car. The shadow of the little cactus on her windowsill became a huge porcupine that waddled across the room and then — poof — vanished.

Nora wrote: Shadow cactus turned into porcupine. Best one tonight. Possibly best one this month.

She leaned back against her pillow and waited for more cars, but the street had gone quiet. The shadows settled into their regular places, still and patient, like they were done performing for the night.

"Investigation Number Five. The Stars."

Nora crept out of bed — carefully stepping over Biscuit, who was still dream-running — and tiptoed to the window. She pressed her nose against the cool glass and looked up.

The sky was very clear tonight. Stars were scattered everywhere, like someone had spilled a jar of sugar across a black tablecloth. She found the three bright stars in a row that her mom had told her were called Orion's Belt.

"Still there," she confirmed. She'd checked every clear night for twenty-six nights. The stars had not moved. Or — well — her mom said they were moving, very slowly, but Nora couldn't tell yet. She needed more data.

She wrote: Orion's Belt. Present. No observable movement. Will continue to monitor.

She yawned. It was a big yawn, the kind that made her jaw ache and her eyes water. But she was not done yet.

"Investigation Number Six. Temperature of Feet."

Nora climbed back into bed and stuck one foot out from under the blanket. Cold. She pulled it back in. Warm. She stuck it out again. Cold. Back in. Warm.

She wrote: Feet get cold in approximately four seconds outside blanket. Get warm again in approximately six seconds under blanket. Conclusion: blanket works.

She yawned again.

"Investigation Number Seven. Pillow."

Nora flipped her pillow over. The other side was cool and smooth. She pressed her cheek against it.

She wrote: Cool side of pillow. Still excellent.

She blinked slowly. Her flashlight felt heavy in her hand. She let it rest on the blanket beside her.

"Investigation... Number... Eight," she murmured. "Breathing."

She listened to her own breathing. In and out. In and out. She tried to count the breaths, but they kept getting slower and deeper, and the numbers kept getting mixed up.

One... two... three... seven... wait...

She yawned the biggest yawn yet. Biscuit had stopped dream-running. He let out a long, peaceful sigh from his bed on the floor. Outside, the moth had gone. The street was quiet. Even the pipes had stopped shushing.

The whole house was wrapped in stillness, like a present wrapped in tissue paper.

Nora picked up her notebook one last time. She could barely keep her eyes open, but she was an investigator, and an investigator always completed her report. In wobbly, half-asleep handwriting, she made her final list:

Tonight's Findings: 1. Crack is not growing. Good. 2. Clock still works. Sixty ticks. 3. Moth came back. Likes light. 4. Biscuit chased dream-squirrel. 5. Shadow porcupine. Best one. 6. Stars still there. 7. Blanket works. 8. Cool side of pillow. Excellent. 9. Everything is...

The pencil trailed off the edge of the page, making a long, lazy line.

Nora's eyes closed. The notebook slipped gently onto the blanket beside her. The flashlight dimmed and went dark, like a tiny sun setting in her hand.

Outside, the stars continued not observably moving. The moth found another light somewhere down the street. Biscuit's nose twitched once, twice, and then was still.

And Nora slept.

She had investigated everything there was to investigate, checked everything there was to check, and confirmed — in her professional opinion — that the whole world was exactly where she'd left it.

It would all be there again tomorrow night.

But for now, there was nothing left to do.

So Nora — finally, completely, wonderfully — decided to sleep.