AN ENTIRE WEEK PASSES by without anything of extreme importance happening. I continue my life in a blur of color and sound and avoidance of all of the issues I'm beginning to unwillingly take notice of. I begin to develop a routine over this unimportant week. I wake up early—at around seven each morning—and I grab my toiletries, tipping my way past Sinclair's office door--moving as soundlessly as I can since he's started sleeping in there--and I take a quick shower that is almost military-like in its precision and quickness. After my shower, I follow the rules for keeping up the bar that Carla has set for me. She asks me to sweep up the bar, wipe down the tables and clean the windows. Typically, Sinclair—who is a fairly light sleeper—won't be able to hear me if I move quietly but every now
