It’s half past midnight, and I’ve just finished up packing my kit after delivering a virtual keynote talk to parents and students in a rural district of Ontario, Canada. I knock back glasses of water in between packing the ring light and returning the furniture to its original place, pulling the dining table slowly to avoid waking up the downstairs neighbours with the juddering of its legs across the wooden floor. I pause, take another sip. We’re still in the final days of Ramadan and I have spent all month oscilating between various states of mild to severe dehydration, not quite getting my liquid intake right. At this point in the night it feels like I’m force-feeding myself. I’m no longer hungry or thirsty but I know from experience, as soon as Fajr hits I will regret not taking that one extra mouthful.