“Juice?” he asks and reaches to the menu I still hold. I flinch, let go. He flips the stiff page and holds it before me, showing the array of wheatgrass wellness shots and CBD cocktails this place still serves to clueless tourists. That trend died years ago. “Just coffee,” I say and choose almond from an assortment of alternative milks. “Got it,” he says and goes away. I reach in my pocket, remove the six brown mushroom capsules I took from my room after I left Henry’s. I’ve foregone oxys, muscle relaxers, benzos, in service of a psychedelic trip, and should be in more pain than I am. It surprises me, how good I feel. Groggy, but not hurting. I put the mushrooms on the paper placemat. I sip my water, look around. One table over, a trio of boy children wear Marvel superhero costumes and beg their haggard parents to hurry.

“I’ve literally taken one bite,” the mother says.

“You wanted French toast so better eat up,” the dad barks.

Even when I was trying to rebrand, I never wanted kids. I didn’t trust myself with the responsibility and was right not to. But now, in this healing place, with the promise of my new appropriate face, responsibility feels possible, pregnancy feels possible, the mommy makeover I’ll plan for after feels possible, everything does.

The waiter returns with my coffee, walks off again. I dump in artificial sweetener, make a chemical mound on the surface, watch it sink. He’s back with my plate before I’ve stirred, the service so fast the food can’t be good. But I’m starving, I realize, unwrapping my silverware too urgent to count carbs, cals, fat grams, or bother to care. Nearby, the loudest kid douses his toast in syrup. He shrieks when it spills and my head slices open. I cut into my steak, the incision tough and gristly, then fork a bite, shovel in meat to seal myself up again.