With the grace of a marionette led by a drunk puppeteer, I pull myself up, out from the embarrassment of a morning spent under the impression that my reflection was someone else, and back up into the land of wicker furniture, where sun-drenched palms spill their fronds against pastel walls.

I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen this all before. Not just Alexa’s room, but even the view past the greenery on her windowsill. I could almost remember seeing those same few cars perform a weekly dance called alternate side parking.

This really is a little too detailed for a dream, isn’t it?