Gary stares at him. “No way.”

“Way!”

Gary looks at me, then at Nick. “I love Lynyrd Skynyrd!” he laugh-cries. “How did you know?”

“I just had a feeling!”

“He’s very intuitive,” Phoebe says.

“Try it on!” Nick says, pushing the fabric on him.

“No. I couldn’t.”

“He really shouldn’t,” I add, remembering the massive Chuck E. Cheese panic attack.

“It’s just fabric!” Phoebe says, reassuringly. “No one ever got hurt by a little fabric.”

“You have no idea,” I say under my breath, but she ignores me, moves over toward Nick, and helps him put the costume over Gary’s head. What I assume is a panicked struggle to resist—arms jutting out, then up, hands pawing frantically at the claustrophobic hooded beak—to keep the costume off—turns out to be an excited effort to get the costume on. I know this is happening because Gary is high, but even so, I can’t help but cheer him on. “Go, Gary, go!” I mutter under my breath so as not to put too much pressure on him to be successful. “You can do it!”

Draped in white, and looking remarkably like a giant bird, Gary is triumphant on the sidewalk, taking a few steps forward, then back; his wings flapping, billowing in the chilly late-afternoon wind. Dying for a glimpse of himself, he races over to the minivan windows and strikes a pose, then turns to us. Phoebe snaps a few photos with her phone, which she shows to Gary. He has a little trouble focusing his eyes under the big head, but once he does, he erupts.

“I love it!” he laugh-cries again, then hugs himself with his wings.

“It’s yours, dude. Keep it.”

Gary gasps. “I couldn’t possibly.” Then: “Really? Can I?”

“I made it myself and I want you to have it.” Nick nods meaningfully, and the puppets get into the front seat of the van. The engine starts and the side door slides shut.

Gary looks down, smooths the folds of fabric with his hands, shakes his head. He’s too profoundly moved to speak. There may or may not be tears in his eyes. And in mine, too: even though he’s doing this with the help of cannabis, his exuberance melts me.

“We’ll be in touch,” I say, for both of us.

They back out slowly, then wave as they drive down the street, the nylon hooves catching air and dancing on the roof of the minivan.

Gary watches in awe, waving wistfully until they’re completely out of sight.

“I love that guy,” he says. “I could really learn from him.”

“Learn what?”

He shakes his head. “I have no fucking idea.” He pauses. “Maybe we can be friends with them.”

Clearly the edibles are talking again. “But you don’t want friends. And you hate people.”

He stares at me, mouth open, disbelieving. “They’re not people, Judy,” he says, seriously, reverently, ridiculously. “They’re puppets.”

Therapy Dog

If I’m honest, which for some reason I hate to be when it comes to the dog, I’ll admit that Charlotte’s true origins were indeed as a therapy animal—for Teddy. We got Charlotte when Teddy was eight, around the time his sadness about being an only child and losing both of his grandparents began, or, intensified.