A lone mosquito again singing her high-pitched siren just as sleep approaches. I want to cry. There's got to be something I can do about this. Then a novel idea: there is a door at the bottom of the stairway; what if I use the mosquito's own instincts against her?
I get up out of bed, stand at the bottom of the stairs, and wait. It takes awhile for the concentrations of H2O and CO2 in the air to change, and longer yet for her to track these concentrations to my vicinity. But, sure enough, the whining eventually wends nearer to me. When she approaches, I go up several steps. When she slowly follows, I go up higher. Finally, I'm standing in the upstairs hall, and she has ascended as well, meandering here and there, attracted to my warm blood. Then I make my move. I hurry down the stairs, close the door behind me, and get back into bed. I listen for several minutes, and hear nothing. I think I did it! What a genius!! Then I look at the clock - it reads 2:46 am.
That's how sleep deprivation works, isn't it? I must be teetering on the very brink. Should I cry now, or should I laugh hysterically?
I can't sleep with the sun shining in my face, so I'm up and in the garden, getting caught up with the weeding. I also transplant some tiny potato plants started from seed.
Back in the house, I'm looking at the old lace curtains on the front window, casting about desperately for a solution. I take the curtains down, put a few hooks in the ceiling above my cot, and drape the curtains over it as a makeshift mosquito net.
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