But Olivia never slept.
She did dream, however.
While she kept watch, walked countless numbers of circles around the room, she dreamed of all the things she wanted, of a watch in her wrist and a deck of cards in her hand, of her family, of Cochise, of Irene and Hannah. She thought of them, dreamed of them being with her, and then, once the thought came into her head that she might never get some of those things back again, that she might never get some of the things she wanted, she tried to forget about them. But no, to forget would be to murder. No, she tried to not think about them. If she couldn't go to sleep, then maybe she could put some of those dreams to sleep instead. Yes, sleep, that was the word.
But then, something occurred to her, because in the act of trying to not think about Irene, Irene in particular, she'd thought about her. She'd thought about their travel to the asylum, and she remembered something, something that had escaped her mind from Irene's death up until now. They were walking, and Olivia had forgotten her sweater. And it was cold, and freezing, and without her watch and now her sweater, she felt naked, and so, and so
She rushed across the room on tip-toes, trying not to wake Georgia Lee up. She rushed towards her bag, and almost immediately, she felt it, she felt the sweater that Irene had loaned her. It was hers. It was a piece of Irene. And aside from Irene's rotting corpse lying who-knew-where, this was all that would be left of her, and now Olivia had a piece of Irene that wasn't her name, that was concrete, that she could feel and hug and now she was hugging it and pretending that Irene was hugging her because this could be felt, it had sleeves that could be felt and she could be put these sleeves, these lanky, massless arms around her and pretend it was Irene, but in the end, it was just pretend, and Irene would still never be back, and so, Olivia sunk into the table and cried again, cried for the nth time, but at least this time, Georgia Lee wasn't awake to see her, judge her, fear her, only the cameras and everyone watching her, and now it wasn't that she didn't mind the cameras, it's just that they didn't feel as important to her as Irene's sweater.
((Olivia Fischer continues in Until Then, You Are Free