The sunroom wasn’t a meditation den. It was a workshop. Every surface was covered in colorful felt, tiny wooden spools, spools of thread, and half-stitched dolls. And the dolls… they were him . And his dad. And Clarissa. There was a little felt Carl holding a felt violin (he did play violin). A felt Dad holding a wrench. And in the center, on a large worktable, a dozen half-finished Clarissa dolls, each wearing a different outfit—an astronaut suit, a chef’s apron, a superhero cape.

“It is an emergency!” Carl said.

The whiteboard still said . But Carl grabbed a marker, crossed out the “NOT,” and added a tiny felt star next to the time.

Clarissa’s cheeks flushed. She gestured him inside. “It’s stupid. It’s my… thing. I make miniature story quilts for a children’s hospital. Scenes of families. Happy ones. The kind where nobody yells, nobody leaves, and nobody forgets to buy milk.” She picked up a tiny felt figure. “I’m trying to stitch our family. But I keep messing up my own face.”

She picked up a needle. “The cape needs more sequins.”

He could see one tiny, painted-shell leg twitching pathetically in the gap. If Clarissa opened that door in two minutes when her “zone” ended, Hercules would be history. Flat, crackly history.

She looked. She saw the hermit crab leg. And then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was a relieved, hiccupping laugh. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought it was an emergency.”