“So I really have to wear this?” Phoebe asks, trying again to free her ponytail and finally succeeding.

“You don’t have to, but you might want to throw it on once or twice a day. For, like, a few minutes, or an hour, or two, or three. I find it actually helps me feel centered. I just wouldn’t want the dog to feel totally abandoned and have to go completely cold turkey by not being worn at all. That would be weird. For her. Don’t you think?” I rub my stomach, since I can suddenly. I could swear Phoebe rolls her eyes but again I’m not entirely sure. When there’s nothing in the house left to show her, and nothing left to say, I leave her alone in the kitchen. Free of the dog, I run quickly, moving easily down the basement stairs to check on things before we leave. I haven’t been down there since they moved in.

There are no boxers or bras hanging from the lampshades; no bongs, still warm and fragrant, in plain sight. Just duffle bags spilling with socks and sweaters and sweatpants, and a soft pile of sheets and a comforter on the floor instead of on the bed. I step over and around things as I peek at the room, and then, as an afterthought, I pick up the Emily Dickinson book, which is still on the coffee table. I flick the rubber band guiltily: it’s been years since I read poetry, let alone this poetry, but the notion of transformation during this road trip seems to be sticking. I put the book in my bag, along with the other props of my nascent artistic life, and head back up the stairs.

After we say our goodbyes to Teddy—I manage to plant a kiss on his cheek and extract a half hug out of him before Gary forces a bear hug—we get into the car. Gary backs out of the driveway slowly, while they—Nick and Phoebe and Teddy and the dog—our doppelgänger family—wave from the doorway. We wave back. I can’t help but think, sadly, that this is the first time we have ever left for a road trip without having Teddy with us, either strapped into his car seat or belted into a booster seat behind us. The vision of him on the front steps—lanky, awkward, turning back toward the house before we’re even gone—makes me sad, and Gary, too, though he won’t admit it. It’s why, halfway down the street, neither of us has said a word. Suddenly, The Forehead’s retreat doesn’t seem like such a great idea. What was I thinking, leaving Teddy—and the dog!—alone with virtual strangers who will probably ignore our pet and starve our child. What is wrong with me?

“Well this is fun!” Gary says as he pulls onto the highway with a lilt in his voice. The false cheer means he’s lying. “And if it’s not fun, we can always leave early!”

“We can’t leave early. Not for what I paid for the workshop and spent on vegan food for the Puppets at Whole Foods.”