What did you sell this month to stay where you are?

The Price of Sleep · a novel by Éon D. Aletheia

Every Monday, Eno paid part of his rent with ninety minutes of sleep.

The band came down. Outside, Calis would be fading into the morning.

He barely dreamed anymore. He produced.

Collection validated, the screen read. One hundred and seventeen usable minutes. Yield above contract.

Three minutes noncompliant.

“Then I want a receipt for my three dead minutes.”

Before Calis. After Calis.

“It had become a way of counting generations.”