“Good morning,” he says.

I feel muddled, disoriented. It takes me a moment to assess: sunlight gently shining into the room, trees outside my window, my body under the blanket. It must be morning.

“How’d you sleep?” he says. “Just dropping these for you.”

His eyes are baggier than yesterday. Darker. He looks different.

“I… slept fine,” I say, bringing a hand to my head. “How about you?”

I glance at my desk. The canvas from last night isn’t there. I must have put it away. I must have hid it, and I’m thankful that I did. My work has always been private but especially when I’ve just started a piece.

“I’m supposed to take you down to the spa after you’ve had breakfast.”

I muster a small nod of acceptance.

I n the dining room, Jack tells me that the others already finished, that I slept in. I miss eating with the group. Especially Hilbert. I was looking forward to seeing him. When I’m done with my breakfast, Jack clears my plate, and instead of going back to my room, we walk the opposite way down the hallway, to a room I’ve never been in.

It looks like a makeshift salon, with a large mirror mounted on the wall, a sink with a spout, and a swivel chair.

“What’s the smell?” I ask.

“Aromatherapy. Helps the body get rid of toxins,” he says.

Jack eases me into a chair in front of a basin. The spout has a long handle.

“We’ll start with a wash. Lean back, relax.”

He places a small towel around my shoulders and carefully leans my head back toward the basin. He cradles my head with one hand, and with the other, he holds the spout over my hair. I feel the warm water on my scalp.

First the shower last night with Shelley, and now he’s washing my hair. I was neglecting these parts of healthy living, letting myself go to seed. The warmth from the water spreads from my head to my hair to my body and into my arms. I have goose bumps.

I close my eyes.

I wonder what Ruth is doing now. Napping in her room? And Pete? They’re all here in the house with me. They must all get a turn in here, in this chair, too, getting their hair washed like this. Does it feel as nice for them as it does for me? Do they need it as much as I do?

I hear Jack set the spout down in the basin and click open the shampoo bottle. He starts gently massaging it into my hair and scalp.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says.

The way he’s rubbing my head feels calming, tranquilizing.

“You should get someone to sit for you. For a portrait.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

I think about telling him what happened in the middle of the night, how I got out of bed feeling inspired and alert. I got my new paints out. I started work. But I don’t feel ready to share that yet.