More than anything, he’s annoyed by the box itself, which often sits for days after they’ve emptied its contents, waiting, with all its recyclable packing innards, for a return pickup by the company. It makes him anxious seeing it day after day, waiting in the rain or chilly wind to be rescued. Once, on a particularly cold and snowy February day, he put a small fleece doggie blanket over the box, hoping they’d get the message that we all see the poor eyesore of a box, freezing its ass off on the bench in front of their house, but instead they were moved by what they interpreted as compassion. With the returned blanket came a bottle of wine and a thank-you note—which included the news that they’d signed us up for a free-trial box from the meal-box company, too. Thanks for being such a thoughtful neighbor! If they only knew. When our box came, Gary opened it in the kitchen but as expected was too overwhelmed by the sheer volume of items in the box and too annoyed by all the wasteful packaging to actually consider using it to cook the meals. Instead, he dropped it off at Morningside Montessori’s after-school program so they could use it as a teaching tool: this is how to cook using premeasured ingredients, and this is what stupid wasteful packaging looks like.

Tonight Gary has already started the salad when I take out salmon and broccoli from the refrigerator, which, when finished, will look nothing like the perfectly plated dishes on the meal-box-delivery cards that I’ve seen on Instagram. “So remember when I did that Bring-Your-Parent-or-Grandparent-or-Beloved-Guardian-to-School Day recently?” I wait for him to nod before I tell him the rest. “Well, Mr. Noah announced that they’ve invited some People Puppets from Vermont for this year’s Autumn Inhabitancy who are going to need housing.”

Gary stares at the cucumber in his hand and his face goes slack. “I don’t even know where to start with that sentence.”

“I know, but the important part is that host families will get a tuition credit, which we could really use,” I say, without getting too specific—I keep most of the details of our financial distress from Gary, since they only make him more anxious, which makes me more anxious. Then I close the refrigerator door slowly so I don’t accidentally whack the dog sling with it, and move over to the cutting board with my onion, garlic, and lemon.

“Um, what exactly are People Puppets?”

“What I got from the photo that Mr. Noah held up,” I say, pointing with my knife, “is that they’re some kind of life-size costumed characters.”

“Like Disney World and Chuck E. Cheese?”

“More handmade, and crafty. With bedsheets for bodies and papier-mâché heads.” I wipe my onion tears on my sleeve. “I think.”

Having to comprehend and categorize a new life-size puppet hybrid is clearly making him anxious: he puts the knife down and reaches into his front pocket for a Klonopin, then bites off half. “So they’re not hand puppets.”