At 10:35 a.m. I’m outside Dawn’s with two omelet bagel sandwiches wrapped in tin foil: ham and cheese for myself, broccoli and cheese for her. I’m about to remind myself to smile as I ring the doorbell, when I realize with a start that I’m already doing it! I’m smiling by accident! I can’t remember the last time that happened. I smile wider because I’m so happy about it.

The door swings open. Dawn’s wearing a blue crop tank today with high-waisted baby blue jeans and a baby blue belt and a baby blue headband. Her eyes have perfect winged eyeliner. She’s barefoot and her toes are also painted blue.

“Jame,” she says, surprised. “You’re almost on time, what’s happening?”

“What? I’m late. I’m five minutes late…” I made sure to be late.

“Well, practice actually starts at 10:45 so you’re ten minutes early. Congratulations, the retreat fundamentally altered your internal clock for the better.”

I stare at her for a moment. She smiles. “Dude, you can come in…”

I nervously take a step inside. A few pairs of shoes are lined up near the door. I hastily bend over and struggle to remove Jamie’s yellow boots without hurting my back, while juggling the two sandwiches. I end up flopped on the floor folded over my legs, frantically unlacing the boots with the tinfoil-covered food in my lap while Dawn watches skeptically with her hands on her hips.

“Are you drunk?” she asks as I finally stand up in a pair of Jamie’s orange socks.

I shake my head and hold out her breakfast. “I made you an omelet bagel sandwich if you’re hungry.”

She squints at me. “You made me food? Homemade food? To eat?”

I shrug awkwardly. “Yes?”

“Don’t forget to grab a pair of tsinelas if you need them,” Dawn directs as two more Duck Waterfall members arrive. There’s a whole basket of flip-flops by the door that she has ready for guests who aren’t wearing socks.

There are eight of us here for the practice. They all greet me as Jamie, and a lot of them comment on how they like my new hair. I’m not introduced to anyone as they arrive because I supposedly know them.

One typical blond Californian-looking boy-man keeps sneaking glances my way and asking if we can talk after practice. I nod and smile. I think his name is Aaron? His flirtatious attention makes me think of Bran and Celia, and how I’ve been so distracted the last twelve hours I forgot to stalk their Instagrams on Jamie’s ancient computer. It’s kind of like I’ve entered a new dimension where they don’t exist. It’s nice.