She reached under the counter and pulled out a small blue bottle. “Saline spray,” she said, enunciating like a patient teacher. “Not for your ears. For your nose. Sometimes the tubes are just swollen shut. This helps.” She also handed him a packet of instant coffee. “Caffeine. Constricts blood vessels. Might reduce the inflammation.”

And then, around 12:47 a.m., it happened.

The silence was no longer muffled. It was clean, crisp, empty. He could hear his own breath. He could hear the tiny scratch of his thumbnail against his jeans. He laughed, and the sound was bright and immediate in his own skull.

He bought both. In his room, he sprayed the saline up each nostril, tilted his head back, and waited. He drank the lukewarm coffee—lukewarm because he couldn’t be bothered with the in-room brewer’s instructions.

He lay on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. He tried a hot shower, letting steam curl into his ear canals. He chewed gum until his jaw ached. He lay on his side, then the other, then on his back with a pillow wedged under his neck. Nothing.

He lay down again. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

“Long flight?” she asked.

He nodded, a small, pathetic motion.