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Adjusting the instrument, Ursula flies a hundred and fifty yards, passing through the window of a well-lit room with which she is already familiar. In this space, everything is clean and light and uncluttered, everything is modern and complete, the room is painted white, there is a pair of brushed metal lamps with halogen bulbs, some black-and-white photos, a couple of designer armchairs and, in the centre, an enormous square bed. White. She halts when she comes to the couple who are in the middle of their bedtime ritual. The scene is simple and predictable: she undresses 51and puts on a nightdress, he undresses and slips between the sheets. Once in bed, each takes out a book, reads, sometimes they seem to speak. Ursula waits, ten minutes pass, twenty, she begins to lose hope. This is the worst part; the waiting feels eternal, and there is no certainty that her patience will be rewarded. They might just put down their books and turn out the light.

Ursula watches these people she doesn’t know, who barely move, watches them turn the pages, adjust an arm, tug at the blanket, take a sip from a glass of water.