Abed in the middle of the Goodmews night, Tris woke and woke from his ‘pitch-black catty-naps’, triple-checking the silence, hearing it as a total deletion of noise – motorised and otherwise – that no human can guarantee. When dawn broke, he woke for good, proof-listening: a punctuation of caw, then chirp, then the cooed paragraphs of the doves’ Morse code, all finally overwritten by the bold bells of the Moon Church.