They turned off the overhead light, turned on the desk lamp. Overhead lighting was not spiritual. Stephen and Jane argued briefly about what was spiritual, he thought they should put on Coltrane; A Love Supreme is the sound of the universe. What about Eternity? Ayanna was about to suggest, but Jane spoke first to say she felt he was just trying to be interesting with that suggestion, and they settled on a three-hour YouTube mix that was a compilation of nature sounds like whale song and birds in the rain, and Enya with no lyrics tracks. There was some mumbling about conflating spa capitalism with true spirits, but everyone was tired of arguing. They would all drink the tea slowly, eyes shut, taking deep breaths and thinking a word over and over.

It felt, Ayanna also kept this to herself, like a lot of effort. She longed to tell them spirits were everywhere. There was one downstairs in the laundry room, always wisping around the lost and found, searching for a misplaced T-shirt. Another was always in her academic adviser’s office, consistently moving between bookshelves, window, and drawers, replicating the patterns of its probably mortal workdays. This didn’t mean there was a higher power. As far as Ayanna could tell, all it meant after these years of seeing them was that existence was impossible to quantify. People had no idea all the depths and complications of what living could be.

Though she could see the similarities to her former church’s rituals, Ayanna refused to think of this as a spiritual experience for herself. All she wanted was to chill and have fun. She could already have smoked a joint and spent a nice afternoon walking around town, sketching things or listening to Earl Sweatshirt and people watching. She could have taken another pill on her own the night before. The tea tasted terrible, like the Throat Coat her grandma liked to take instead of NyQuil.

Meditating was fine; Ayanna refused to use a word actually important to her or consider anything about her life, so she settled on Panenka. It was a favorite word, something she had always wanted to accomplish, and just beautiful in sound and rhythm to Ayanna’s ears. It was nice in an unexpected way to lie on the thin rug in her dorm room and think, Panenka, Panenka, Panenka.

She admitted to herself after two rounds of thinking Panenka that she was also scared. It would be embarrassing to talk to spirits in front of Jane and Stephen. It still felt—despite Professor Collins, despite her grandmother, despite Felix—like it could be a symptom of mental illness.

Panenka, Panenka, Panenka. Relax. It was only tea. Panenka, Panenka, Panenka. She was only syllables and breaths.