100 words: Graveyard.

Waking traumatizes him like birth, I think as he frowns and immediately shakes his head in confusion, asking nonsensically for "the receipts." I repeat the time, banking on the inherent anchoring power of numbers. He'll repeat back a labored "seven o'clock?" and I'll lean on the doorframe, edging the dark, waiting for him to rejoin reality. The hours separate us, his graveyard life rippling the silence of the afternoon house, and we'll pass each other for moments between his work and my rest, just long enough to not let us forget. "Seven o'clock?" he asks, and I say, "It's time."