The Time of Change

Sleep

"Are you sure?"

    "Yes, positive."

    "But you were—"

    "I'm fine. Really."

    The Doctor looks at me skeptically but nods. I follow him as he moves to stand beside the console. In the Scanner, I see Heaven Street for the last time. I doubt the Ralphs' neighbors will ever know what truly became of them, whether the family is dead, alive, moved away, or simply disappeared. Maybe we won't either. I guess it's better that way.

    "How's your head?" I ask, gesturing at the bluish-purplish bruise just above his right eyebrow.

    He shrugs. "Thick, as usual. No worse off after my fall."

    A real laugh tumbles from my lips, and he smiles at me. "Where are we off to?" I inquire, attempting to seem as cheery as possible.

The Doctor taps the console, then his temple. "Not telling," he replies. "It's a surprise, and if I tell you, that's not much of a surprise, is it?"

I roll my eyes but smile anyway. As he begins the usual process of button-pushing and lever-pulling, my legs start to feel slightly weak beneath me. I use the nearby railing to support myself, staring at my feet curiously. When was the last time I ate? The fact that I can't remember is probably not a good sign. I also don't recall when I last slept. Inwardly I wonder how it's possible that I've been running on fumes for so long. "I think I'm going to lie down for a bit," I tell the Doctor.

    He turns to look at me, concern flashing in his eyes, before smiling and nodding. "I'll come get you when we've landed," he says.

I start toward the ramp and stairs, climbing them with care. A feeling never truly hits until you acknowledge its presence, and I suppose exhaustion is no different. As I walk down the endless hallway and forcefully remind my brain to put one foot after another, I think. Is there anywhere to sleep in the TARDIS? I never thought to ask. Passing dozens of doors and branching halls, I wonder where I'm going. My feet seem to know. They lead me down an adjacent hall, another one after that, and then a third. After what feels like ages, I come to a wobbly stop in front of a door whose black color is so stark and vivid that it almost appears animated. In my sleep-deprived state it looks all the more trippy. I touch it just to make sure it's really there, and when I've established this, I grasp the knob and push the door open.

A vast room unfolds before me, and the first detail I notice is the wallpaper: it seems to be made of actual stars. It ripples and flows in the same way a clear midnight sky might as it is reflected on the surface of a lake. Next I notice the floor, which is covered, corner-to-corner, in the softest bright white carpet. The fibers curl around the curve of my boots. Up on a small platform at the other end of the room is a planetary model that looks extremely complex; it takes up probably twelve square feet and depicts planets I've never seen before. Pressed against the wall to my right is a trio of side-by-side desks laden down with various books and papers with a few metal contraptions strewn here and there. It's a very organized mess. Sticky notes adhere to the wall above the desks and to their drawers. From this distance, I can't make out what they say. On my left is a huge full-moon-shaped bed, its fluffy comforter a deep gray.

I stumble towards it, zombie-like, and only barely register my own face smiling up at me from a picture frame sitting on the bedside table.

Kicking off my boots, I collapse to the bed. Sleep overtakes me within the minute.