Snow doesn’t give a shit about waking me up. He likes to be the first person down to breakfast, Chomsky knows why. It’s 6 A.M., and he’s already banging around our room like a cow who accidentally wandered up here. The windows are still open, and the sunlight is pouring in. I’m fine in sunlight—that’s another myth. But I don’t like it. It stings a bit, especially first thing in the morning. Snow suspects, I think, and is constantly opening the curtains.