Fazbear Frights #3: 1.35 AM

1:35 A.M.

Orphaned from a young age and recently divorced, Delilah escapes deeper into her dreams each night, in desperate need of a wake-up call.

"Oh hurray, buzzy, buzzy, buzzy," sang a loud tinkling voice.

The inane song reached, like a long-handled hook, into Delilah's enjoyable dream and yanked her from the blessed retreat of sleep.

"What the ... ?" Delilah muttered as she sat up in the middle of her rumpled flannel sheets, blinking at the sun punching through gaps in her louvered blinds.

"You make me feel so perky," the singer continued.

Delilah threw her pillow at the inadequate wall that separated her apartment from the one next door. The pillow made a satisfying thump when it hit a framed poster depicting a serene beachy scene. Delilah looked at the poster with longing; it represented the view she wished she had.

But Delilah didn't have an ocean view. She had a view of dumpsters and the filthy backside of the twenty-four-hour diner where she worked. She didn't have serenity, either. She had her annoying neighbor, Mary, who continued to sing at the top of her lungs: "Thank you, thank you, thank you for starting my day."

"Who sings about alarm clocks?" Delilah snapped, groaning and rubbing her eyes. It was bad enough having a singing neighbor; it was a thousand times worse that the singing neighbor made up her own stupid songs and always started her day with one about an alarm clock. Weren't alarm clocks bad enough on their own?

Speaking of which. Delilah looked at her clock. "What?" She catapulted from her bed.

Grabbing the little battery-powered digital clock, Delilah glared at its face, which read 6:25 a.m.

"What good are you?" Delilah demanded, tossing the clock onto her bright blue comforter.

Delilah had a pathological hatred of alarm clocks. It was a vestige of the ten months she spent in her last foster home nearly five years before, but

life in the real world required the use of them, something Delilah was still learning to deal with. Though now she'd discovered something she hated worse than alarm clocks: alarm clocks that didn't work.

Delilah's phone rang. When she picked it up, she didn't wait for the caller to speak. Talking over the sound of clattering plates and a hum of voices, she said, "I know, Nate. I overslept. I can be there in thirty minutes."

"I already called in Rianne to cover. You can take her two o'clock shift."

Delilah sighed. She hated that shift. It was the really busy one.

Actually, she hated all the shifts. She hated shifts, period.

As a shift manager at the diner, she was expected to work whichever shift best fit the overall schedule. So her "days" varied from six to two, two to ten, and ten to six. Her body clock was so messed up that she was practically sleeping while she was awake and awake while she was sleeping. She lived in a state of perpetual exhaustion. Her mind was always murky, like fog had rolled in through her ears. Not only did the fog dampen her ability to think clearly, it also made it difficult for her brain to interface with her senses. It seemed as though her vision, hearing, and taste buds were always a little off.

"Delilah? Can I count on you to be here at two?" Nate barked in Delilah's ear.

"Yeah. Yes. I'll be there."

Nate made a growling sound and hung up.

"I love you, too," Delilah said into the phone before she set it down.

Delilah looked at her queen-size bed. The thick mattress and her special memory foam pillow beckoned like a languid lover, inviting her back to bed. Delilah so wanted to give in. She loved sleep. She loved just being in her bed. It was like a cocoon—an adult version of the blanket forts she liked to build when she was little. She would spend all day in her bed if she could. She wished she could find one of those stay-at-home jobs that let her work in bed in her pajamas. It wouldn't be ideal for her employer, because she'd rather just lounge about and sleep, but it would be better for her health. She could set her own shifts if she worked for herself.