At 5:53, Mina woke to the burr of a coffee grinder.

 

For a moment she lay still, trying to place the sound. Daniel did not grind coffee that early. In fact, he didn’t do anything that early unless it was complaining at the alarm clock.

 

She found him in her kitchen fully dressed, clean-shaven, pouring milk into a frothing pitcher with one hand and swiping through his mobile phone in the other.

He looked up and smiled; not tired or smug, but bright.

 

“Morning, honey.”

 

Mina leaned against the doorway. “You disgust me.”

 

"Is that any way to greet a walking, talking medical breakthrough?"

 

She yawned. “It’s six in the morning.”

 

“And I’ve already cleared my inbox,” he said, setting his phone down on a tea towel. “I’m serious, Mina. I feel incredible.”

 

He looked incredible; usually, by now, he wore stubble, a headache, and a mild resentment at being awake. This Daniel looked scrubbed raw.

 

On the counter beside him sat a folded aftercare leaflet from SOMNUS: white card, gold lettering. Complete Recovery, the front read. Below that: Thank you for choosing reclaimed rest.

 

Mina picked up the leaflet and immediately caught the scent of something medicinal. “Looks like your little sleep clinic has kept its impossible promise.”

 

“Joke all you want,” he said. “But eight hours’ rest in sixty minutes? I’ll take that any day of the week.”

 

She flipped the leaflet over and read through the smaller print. “Listen to this,” she said. “’Hydrate frequently. Disorientation can occur. Avoid operating heavy machinery for two hours immediately afterward.’” She frowned. “Afterward from what, exactly?”

 

Daniel shrugged. “They’re just covering their ass.”

 

She swatted his arm with the leaflet. “Do you even read the stuff you sign?”

 

“Never,” he winked. “Ruins the experience.”

 

He poured Mina's coffee first, then winced faintly as he passed the cup over to her.

 

“Sore?”

 

He blinked. “No, actually.” He rubbed the pale band on his wrist, as if something there still stung. “Did you hear sirens last night?”

 

“No,” she said. “But you know me. I’d sleep through a marching band.”

 

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

 

Mina sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup.

 

“Alright, I’m off,” he said, kissing her quickly on the forehead. “Dinner tonight? Gondolier at six?”

 

“Yes, please,” she said.

 

Mina held the steaming mug with both hands: the coffee’s aroma was strong, bitter, and normal. Beneath it, she caught Daniel’s aftershave, and something else — sterile, maybe, or faintly singed — before he flew out the door.

 

* * *

 

They met that evening at a little Greek restaurant where the lighting forgave everyone. Daniel was already there when she arrived, sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly fresh-faced.

 

“Did you order already?” Mina asked.

 

“I got you a Cabernet.” Daniel leaned back in his chair.

 

“Thanks,” she said, sitting.

 

Daniel ran his fingers through his hair, grinning like he’d won something.

 

Mina shot him a look. “You went to Somnus again?”

 

“Yep,” he said, pleased with himself. “I left work early.”

 

She studied him for a moment. “I have to admit, whatever they’re doing does take years off you.”

 

“Off my face, maybe,” he said, winking.

 

“I don’t know how you trust a place that calls sleep ‘reclaimed rest,’” she said.

 

“At least I haven’t snuck out to my car for a nap this whole week,” he said.

 

He reached for his glass and tipped back the last of the melting ice. Mina noticed a dark smudge at one cuff.

 

The waiter appeared with Mina’s red wine and two menus in hand.

 

“Another whiskey and cola for you, sir?”

 

“Just sparkling water, thanks,” Daniel said. Then, when he saw the look on her face: “Thank you for choosing reclaimed rest.” He said it lightly, but the phrase sounded practiced.

 

The waiter smiled politely and retreated toward the bar.

 

“Do your colleagues hate you yet?” she said. “You’re becoming impossible already.”

 

“No,” he said. “I’m efficient.”

 

“Evangelical, maybe,” Mina replied.

 

“Hey — I’m here with you,” Daniel said, “and I’m not fighting to stay awake for once.”

 

She smiled at him over the top of the menu. “Hang on to those energy levels for when we get home.”

 

But Daniel was already looking past her at the television mounted high above the bar, the sound off and captions crawling underneath. An aerial shot: a converted warehouse block billowing black into the night, surrounded by emergency vehicles. Another angle showed responders in masks moving through white foam.

 

BREAKING NEWS: CHEMICAL EXPLOSION, the ticker read. NO SURVIVORS FOUND.

 

Daniel went strangely still. “I thought they got the kids out,” he said.

 

Mina looked at him. “What kids?”

 

He stared at her blankly, then looked back at the television.

 

“You okay?” Mina said.

 

Daniel rubbed the bare skin on his wrist again. She’d noticed him doing it all week, always when he seemed to drift somewhere else.

 

“Daniel?” she said.

 

He let go of his wrist, and his expression shifted to confusion. Mina had only seen that look on his face before when he woke from a nightmare.

 

Then he sniffed. Once, twice.

 

For the first time that night, Mina leaned across the table. Behind Daniel’s cologne and the red wine and the rosemary butter, there it was: a thin, stale tang of something scorched. Not candles. Not a hearth fire. Something sharper.

 

“Why do your clothes smell burnt?”