This might be the third time he's repeated himself mentally. Sunday isn't quite sure anymore. Truthfully, he's lost count.

He keeps saying it wrong in his head. Whether it's stumbling over his words in his mind, or losing his pace, or mixing up the next line: he can't go to sleep until he gets it right. If he says it wrong, something bad will happen. He's not sure what. But it will.

So, he's still on his knees. Sunday's hands are clasped. He's kneeling at his bed. He won't allow sleep.