The mistake was breathtaking. Shocking. Somehow worse than a killer robot. The smallness of the error, its pointed and targeted detail more of a needle than a hammer—it seemed personal.

The floor was covered with newspaper and the room stank from where the puppy had done its business. The bottom of the birdcage was already covered in tiny, desiccated turds. I wondered how long these animals had been left in here. More and more it read like a deliberate message from Ray, one that had no goodwill in it at all.

As I looked at both of these creatures, breathing and looking back at me, all of us at the beginning of our life cycles, a veil of dread lowered over me. The three of us stood silent as if players on a stage, waiting for a cue. Even the puppy was still. I didn’t feel fully seated inside myself. I felt like I used to during Christmas at Jim and Geannie’s, as if I were watching myself exist while others did the actual living, struggling to hear a deeper message in a murmurous, alien tongue, forever out of my grasp.

The bird tweeted and moved time forward. The dog yipped again and nuzzled my ankle. It seemed so happy to see me. Even the bird seemed excited at my presence, as if the life of the party had just arrived. They both gazed at me, the newcomer.

Ray’s “gifts.” Involuntarily my heart stabbed at my throat, my stupid eyes.

All these living things. It felt like sabotage.

Two

For the first year I was Janet Wood, my first love. I needed her sensible brain to ground me, to fully settle me into my new world. In the morning I woke as Janet Wood, and I stretched in my bed as Janet Wood, wearing the same navy-blue nightgown emblazoned with the number zero that Janet Wood wore, and my alarm clock was set for 7 a.m., Janet Wood’s wake time, the light barely penetrating the ugly curtains that shrouded Janet Wood’s bedroom window, and when I turned off my alarm I was Janet Wood, and when I clicked on the lamp I was Janet Wood, and when I looked in the mirror I saw Janet Wood’s dark and shiny hair, and my eyes were newly brown.

I’d rise from bed and put on my robe and bedroom shoes, and I’d say hello to ghost Chrissy, who, within days of beginning this routine, became real Chrissy. “Get up, Chrissy!” I’d call softly as I passed her bed to exit the room. And Chrissy would wake with the groan of a child and stretch and yawn, and I’d go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water before shuffling into the kitchen. The dog followed me everywhere but I ignored it. In the kitchen I might find Jack standing in front of the stove. The overhead light would be on, plus the morning light coming through the window at full glare. Rainy days were best, gloomy and dark outside, the orange-yellow kitchen happily glowing inside. And if Jack was already there I would make coffee, do my part, and if he hadn’t arrived yet I would make toast for myself, maybe pour a glass of orange juice. I’d also set the table for my roommates if they were behind schedule, and I’d wait until they bustled in, sleepy but bright, friendly. “Good morning!” each of them called to me. “Oh, morning!” I’d reply back.