What Mr. Heston didn't know, is that I'm in the midst of a healing process.  I managed to become quite an insomniac during all of those late nights studying, and then working for three straight days, during my fellowship at the hospital.  I figured, if I'm going to be up all night staring at the wall, I may as well be getting paid for it.  I also wanted a job where if you screwed up, nobody died.  Mr. Taylor proved me wrong on that one.  I should have been a night watchman at a dollhouse museum.  Some place where no one tries to steal anything.  Just me and the mice.  Or not because they might want to eat the dollhouses.  I don't know I'm not really informed about that kind of thing.  It might be interesting.  Getting the perfect slacker job can really be quite challenging.

 I was making major progress on my sleeping time, until I got fired.  I was managing about four hours a night.   But, now my wake-up kicked the bucket.  I really will miss Mr. Taylor.  I associate him with a good nights rest.  But, now I have all this time on my hands until I locate the perfect museum job. 

For the first three days off my night job I examined all of the cracks and blemishes in my ceiling.  After that I moved on to the wall.  Then I would make up what different shadows were.  I'm down to three hours from  four.  On the fourth day I was looking for a little stimulation.  I remembered how I always let History out the window at around 12 am, and then he would  be waiting to come in when I got home after my shift.  I decided I would follow him.  This was going to take some doing since it seemed a little unrealistic that I climb out the third story window with him.  Unlike History, I can't get hit by a car and keep on kicking.  Falling out a window isn't on my list of things to do.  Plus it would just add insult to injury.  One misfortune a week is good enough for me.

Sure enough there he was when 12 am rolled around, quietly waiting at the window.  He had his usual you 'know what to do' look.  I opened the window and as soon as his tail was over the sill I grabbed my coat and ran down the three flights of stairs to the back alley.  I managed to get to the door just as he was rounding the corner.  Trying not to run, I walked as quickly as I could to catch up to History as he made his way into the night, tail swishing in time with the nonchalance of his demeanor.  There is no way that History is really that suave.  One of his favorite things to do is roll in the dirt.  This, I do not understand.  Why would History roll in the dirt if it is only going to result in a mouthful of sand and fur?  One of the many mystries of History.  Personally, it leaves a funny taste in my mouth just thinking about it.

 I followed at a good distance so as not to disturb him on his nightly jaunt.  I didn't think he would run, being that he lives in my apartment and I feed him every day.  Still, to be on the safe side.  History cut through yards, over fences, up the occational tree.  He even knew a house with a cat door and food on the porch.  No wonder he seemed to be getting bigger.  I followed him for hours on his winding path.  In the morning he returned to the apartment.  Right before he climbed the tree to my third story window he looked back at me.  He seemed almost curious.  I went in the side door, up the stairs, let him in, and gave him an unneeded breakfast, before I was off the the gas station.

I followed him for the next couple of nights.  It was eerie.  He retraced his exact steps every night.  Even little details.  Such as, there was a red fence three blocks over that he would come to at around 3:30am and sit on the third post with all four feet neatly tucked under himself, and look at the second window from the right on the first floor for exactly seven minutes.  I timed it.  I've always been neurotic about data collection.  This was really entertaining for me.  He did this at about twelve different houses.  History always had a particular point he would focus on.   Certain places and things seemed to interest him.  I started to write down the addresses he stopped at and the location of his gaze.  Why would History repeat this action, in these specific places?  I'm going to look into it.

 Since these little escapades have started I have been sleeping four hours again.  It's an early evening event.  History's repetition seems to be helping.  And there is no risk of anyone dying.  This is way more interesting than leading the rogue elder back to their room.  I've started spending my days at work hypothesizing why History goes to those houses.  I like not knowing for right now.  Hanging on the edge.  The suspense is invigorating.  Tomorrow, I will look up the locational details of History's little fascinations.