They are still awake. Twenty six beds in two neat rows. Most filled, most asleep, some still rustling, some still moving. Their voices have only just calmed - what is it about these impish little minds that they can't understand the notion of "quiet brings sleep"? They rummage and sigh and complain. It's the heat, it's the noise, it's the people. It's everything and everyone but themselves. One of them rolls over in her sleep and I envy her, that she is able to rest and dream and recharge.
I stalk the dorm on soft feet and swing my head towards any noise made as if I can silence it with a look. And sometimes I can. They don't like my presence; it forces them to lay still and keep quiet. Tomorrow I will talk to them, these restless little girls. Tomorrow my tiredness will voice itself and tomorrow night... I hope for sleep.
I hear them breathing and this time no voice breaks the gentle rhythm. Maybe finally they are at rest. Their sleeping heads are taking them where I, right now, wish I was. And as they sink deeper into their dreams I sit here and record my thoughts.
I am the last one awake. Which means I am the last one to sleep.