I am playing tennis in my mind, hitting lazy forehands over the net with a slow, easy rhythm. My opponent is faceless but returns my shots at the same lackadaisical pace. My eyelids grow heavier.
Some people count sheep to try to fall asleep.
I play old-man tennis in my mind. Tonight it's not working. As I roll over on my side, I am all too aware that there are plastic tubes stuck in my nostrils and a monitor taped to my index finger. I look over at the bedside table on which sits a small box with green lights flashing. That's not what it's officially called, but it's close enough.