Counting sheep, warm milk… and still nothing. Just staring at the ceiling, watching the moonlight seep in through faded curtains.
Pounding her pillow in frustration, Quinn throws back the covers.
“Time to raid the fridge,” she declares.
Half a sandwich later, she’s back in bed with a worn-out copy of her favorite book.
Practically reciting passages from memory, she’s quickly immersed in fantasy. No worries. No problems. Just the pure joy of a well-written story and the contentment it brings.
Quinn drifts off, smiling, book still nestled between her hands.