Here from the first line of Ari Figue's Cat, and the opening of chapter 2.
He had been lying in bed for hours, half asleep, half awake when he heard, as distinct and real as the rattling of the windows in the wind, as the knocking of the heating pipes in the walls, a woman's voice calling out the name, Jacob, as though it were his own.
When he was a child it would come to him, the voice--sometimes out of common white noise, the sound of passing cars, a ceiling fan, a radio playing in another roomsometimes in his own head, like the one he would hear when he was reading. Do not forget this moment, it seemed to say, as though he were being held accountable for what he had seen and heard--for everything experienced in that moment. Not seldom, it would take on the voice of a real person: Mrs. Erickson in the third grade, who, catching him daydreaming, would grab him by the ear: Pay attention! she would hiss, pointing to figures on a blackboard, demanding an answer to a question he could no longer remember. Somewhere in adolescence, the voice faded, but the feeling that had accompanied it, this sense of accountability, did not. If anything, it grew stronger. It would come over him like a seizure: a squirrel running up a tree, a bubblegum wrapper floating in a puddle on the sidewalk, a snatch of conversation overheard--the most trivial things would suddenly be transformed into enigmas--as though something momentous hung in the balance--a problem he was compelled to solve. Portents of the empty set.