Whenever possible, I make it a point to witness the hypnopompic miracle that is a child waking in an unfamiliar bed. The breathing halts. The hands shoot out of the sleeping bag as if narrowly escaping some ogre's maw, then grope at the hard plastic mattress and the wooden frame of the bunk. The eyes stay shut to delay confirmation of this other place. The hands inch back into the bag—here the child attempts to transport herself home by denying her senses of unfamiliarity. But. That's not a satisfying solution, is it? So she slowly, reluctantly squints open an eye. What is this dark room? This elevated bunk? This woman smiling over me is not my mother! Relax, darling. You and Mom are in a trial separation. You begged her for this.