I was kicked out of my apartment for being two days late on rent. I haven’t booked an acting gig in months. I’m questioning everything I ever thought I could do because I completely humiliated myself on stage at the Laugh Drop—not just a historic comedy club, but also, you know, my place of work. Oh yeah, and I’m broke. I’m game to escape reality for a week.

I yank another plaid shirt from a hanger in my closet. “It’s for people who are feeling lost, and it’s in Colorado, and I leave tomorrow.”

Dawn jackknifes upward. “Wait, what? What do you mean, tomorrow?” Her hair resettles around her heart-shaped face. “Jamie, you’re going to Colorado?”

I shoot her a grin. “Why do you think I’m packing?”

“I thought you were picking out an outfit!”

“Nope, packing.” I throw the pile of shirts draped over my arm out into the room. It lands in a muffled clump on my ancient fuzzy pink carpet.

“What about Duck Waterfall? We have practice tomorrow. How long will you be gone? I have an anatomy exam next week, Jame. I was counting on you taking lead.”

Cultivating our improv team, Duck Waterfall, was a great idea, and through hours of practices and coaching, our little comedy group has bloomed into something really promising. It’s been a strangely rewarding, hilarious journey. But to make all this progress happen, over the past year I’ve had to scale back hours at both my side jobs (hustling tickets for the Laugh Drop and teaching kiddies beginner hip-hop), turn down multiple auditions for practices, and consistently pitch in for biweekly coaching sessions with outside talent. One could say Duck Waterfall played the leading role in my financial demise.

“You can handle one week of Duck Waterfall practice. I’ll be back next Thursday.” I shrug. “And if you can’t, just cancel it. It’s only two practices.”

Dawn shoots me a flabbergasted look. “Jamie, we’re finally starting to really find our groove as a team. I’m not canceling practice.”

I exit the closet, drop to my knees, pull open my bottom dresser drawer, and start transferring underwear into the orange backpack I have open at the foot of my bed.

Dawn rolls to her stomach and rests her chin on her hand. “Can you tell me what is going on with you this week? You’ve been off. Sidebar: I’m appalled you keep your underwear in the bottom drawer.”

“Nothing’s going on.” I pull open a new drawer and focus on the disarray of socks inside.

“Jame. I know you had a stand-up gig last week. I know you must have bombed. Can we just talk about it? Would you please just let me come to a damn gig?”