Upon closer inspection, the angel looks like . . . Greg? Or maybe Mr. Vu? A combination of the two. He’s dressed in coordinated suspenders, hat, and a loosened bow tie dangling from his neck.

The devil is completely nude and has features somewhere between those of Lion and Donielle Kempf. He occasionally throws me a wink. It’s an unsettling creature. But then again, I guess that’s the point.

I punch my pillow back into shape and wait for my eyelids to get heavier and heavier. Eventually, I snap awake when my morning alarm begins to wail and am simply left to stare at the blank bedroom ceiling again.

I don’t know if that qualifies as a nightmare, but yeesh, let’s not do that again.

I slip into my dog walking sneakers, put on the cleanest Uptown Updogs hoodie I can find, throw on a coat, and head out to collect Pogo from Mrs. Ponech’s first. Today, I leave my phone behind. I haven’t checked the Columbia portal once since yesterday.

After Pogo, I pick up Shadow, and we end up jogging for two full laps around our usual path, at full speed. Today, I manage to keep up with him and even feel like I could run another five miles after dropping him off. Running shuts off the brain, and my synapses are in dire need of shutting down. I swing by a pet store and spend twenty bucks on puppy toys for Palm Tree before heading to the Troys’. If it’s emotional bribery, the giddy border collie doesn’t read it as much. He’s thrilled at the sight of me. After a quick morning pee at the curb downstairs, he enthusiastically inhales his breakfast and loses his mind at the veritable zoo of “two for five dollars” polyester-stuffed animals I unleash at his feet.

I end up taking him out twice in as many hours, and we spend the rest of the morning going through clicker training exercises. We then play up a storm, running around the apartment chasing thrown toys like Daisy Buchanan thirsting for designer dress shirts.

“I’m the one who just got off an eight-hour flight,” comes a voice at the door. “Why are you the one who looks jet-lagged?”

Neither Palm Tree nor I are entirely sure what to say to the sight of Corinne—key in hand, jacket rumpled and hair inflated by the fact that it was probably last combed a continent away—but it takes less than two seconds for Palm Tree to dash forward, yapping, tripping into his own legs to go lean into her as if he hasn’t seen her in years and thought he never would again.

“I missed you so much, you absolute little monster,” she squeals, picking him up and cradling him like a baby. “All other dogs in the world are so basic, I can’t stand it!”