His room looks different. It would be better if it were messier, like he was throwing things around in his sleep. Instead, it's tidy, like someone came in and picked everything up and put it back where it belonged — but several inches off, just slightly moved. The difference is not drastic. He notices enough to know it's off, but not enough to be sure. It takes a special kind of dysfunction to gaslight yourself.

The sound of his footsteps on the stairs, then the back screen door opening and banging closed. The kids are asleep in the backyard now that the sky jellyfish are gone, and he's not making any sound. If he's hysterical or crying or puking, he's keeping it to himself. He just needs a few moments alone.

Footsteps again upstairs, a pause, then downstairs again. When he appears in the kitchen, he's thrown on a robe. It doesn't fit him well, he's drowning in it. His feet are bare and his hair sticks out in every direction, a giant fluffy white mass on his head, making him look a bit like a lion. The dark circles around his eyes are normal.