By Wednesday morning, Arthur Bellweather had grown suspicious of his own cooperation with time. He awoke before the alarm, again, with the strange feeling that something was watching him—not menacingly, not even judgmentally, but with a steady, calculated patience that made him twitch in ways previously reserved for horror movies and tax audits. The alarm clock sat on the bedside table, blinking softly, calm, observant, like a referee who had seen too many fouls but remained impartial. “You are awake,” it said. Arthur groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t need to hear that.” “You are noting patterns,” the alarm clock replied. Arthur frowned.