At three, Jed comes in to Rearrange us. We Speakers, in standing postures, are formed into a tight triangle midway up the Speaking Wall, encircled by our Singers. One of our Singers, afraid of heights, reassured at length by the other Singers, must finally be given an Ativan, by Jean.

Since each of us will be Speaking/Singing from multiple viewpoints, costuming is kept simple: each of us is to wear a new black Sweatsuit. Adult son Mike, grumbling, takes the plastic-wrapped Sweatsuits from the Target box, one by one, and lays them out on the floor of Listening Room, so that he and Jean may check sizes, see who gets what.

“What an event, what a night,” he says.

“Mike,” Jean says. “No sarcasm. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“A bunch of old rich people get to hear an old rich guy tell the story of a bunch of youngish imperialist oppressors dying gloriously,” says adult son Mike. “Performed by a group of people who, unbeknownst to themselves, are currently being oppressed by the old guy and his rich pals in the audience, who he insists on boring to death every few weeks and who consent to it in the name of friendship and are thereby made complicit in the whole oppressive shit show.”

“Does anyone in here look oppressed, Mikey?” Jean says. “Other than you? Look around.”

We Speakers, regarding ourselves in our new black Sweatsuits, are smiling. The Singers, in their new black Sweatsuits, ditto. We are smiling because we like our look, yes, but also because we are in a state of high anticipation, because we have been working at something deep and complex and surprising that we are soon going to have the chance to gift to a group of people not at all expecting to be wowed.

A feeling adult son Mike has, sadly, never known.

He has no work, no art, no dreams, no joy. He just has anger and a fondness for being correct in his energetic, self-righteous disapproval of all that he sees.

He comes over, stands before us.

“Jeremy, what are you?” he says. “Like, thirty?”

I give him a look, as in: Funny, adult son Mike.

“No, seriously,” he says. “How old are you?”

I raise my hand.

“Go,” he says.

“Four,” I say.

“Right, you’re four,” he says. “Four years old.”

“And two months,” I say.

Lauren and Craig nod, as in: We are also four years, two months.

“Pretty big for four-year-olds,” he says. “Plus, Craig, your hair is thinning.”

Craig blushes, casts sad eyes up in the direction of his hair.

“Mike, honestly,” says Jean. “You need to grow up, show some respect. For your dad’s work.”

Jean must have been a maid here a long time for adult son Mike, normally so peevish and combative, to shrug off this rebuke.

“So, you were all born, like, full-sized, on the same day, four years ago?” he says. “That was, it seems to you, your, uh, birthday? Your collective birthday?”