I’m sent to a small room on my own. The room is dark, with paintings of exhibits from P. T. Barnum’s freak show spotlit on the walls, interspersed with self-portraits of the artist. Colorful painted reproductions of posters read “World’s Oldest Woman!” and “Bearded Lady!” One poster advertises the autopsy of an enslaved Black woman Barnum owned; another, the autopsy of an elephant. There are posters for the world’s smallest man, the Feejee mermaid, and Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy. I feel weird. I don’t know what it is. Kind of queasy. Unrooted from the ground where I stand, like I could easily fall over. I’ve felt like this since coming into this room. I received a reply from Anju, and she said yes to meeting up, and sounded enthusiastic; she’s invited me to an open studio at her house next week too, and sent me her address and the details. Maria has also sent a voice message on WhatsApp, which I listened to upstairs in the room with the sofas, and she’s said she’ll knock for me tomorrow. I feel a kind of giddiness about having new friends, and gratitude for being able to live successfully as a human, at the idea of being able to repeat last night, of meeting people over food, but also something else. I don’t really feel like I belong here, or maybe I feel like I belong here, in this specific room, too much.

The guests start arriving at eight-thirty. I hear voices in other rooms, and they sound too happy and relaxed to be those of anyone who works here. I hear people exclaiming Gideon’s name too, like they’re excited to be seeing him, so I know he is here also. I hadn’t, before this point, realized that I was so worried about seeing him again. But, now, I feel my body transform, in the way it does when my human self feels exposed or unsafe. All my hairs stand up, and I stay very still; it’s as though every part of my body becomes a sensor for movement and for danger, and I listen to each part, waiting. I lean my back against the wall, so one route to my body is blocked.