Maybe Roland hadn't noticed, but his wife tended to stay up far later than he did. Riza was already uncomfortable with the premise of sharing a bed and even more so with the vulnerability required by it. Most nights she joins him and reads, waiting until he's asleep before even considering settling herself. Even nights when she lies beside him she finds herself staring aimlessly at the door long after the lights are turned out. She's never been a good sleeper.

But today, she headed upstairs early. She'd been unusually tense cooking dinner, nearly burning herself at the stove. At the table, she'd been silent instead of politely querying about Roland's day. And immediately after dinner she'd excused herself upstairs, citing feeling under the weather.

By the time Roland follows, she'll be sound asleep, tightly wound up in the blankets and curled on her side facing away from the door. All of it's unusual, and it doesn't get better as the night goes on. It's not late in the night that she's murmuring in her sleep, vague sounds of discontent at first and strings of nonsense out of context. There's strings of been ordered not to die, and this isn't for the good of your comrades, and ultimately devolving to murmurs of pain. If Roland had managed to fall asleep with her restlessness and hadn't already intervened, the muffled shout begging for it to stop, please! is probably loud enough to wake him.