He’s finally asleep.

Moving under the cover of night, we make our journey up the side of the bed. We climb up his hideously patterned pajamas, and onto his chest. It heaves up and down as he breathes, and the wind from his mouth almost blows us over. Fighting through the hurricane of halitosis, we finally make it to his face. Scaling this is akin to a craggy mountainside, with pits and ridges that are easy to hang on. We make it up to his forehead and begin our work, which at this point is just going through the motions, having done it so many times. Numb the skin, make a tiny incision, plant the mind control device, stitch it up. I hope he doesn’t notice the dust. Nah, they never do.