As a last resort, upon the advice of a therapist, we retreated to the Cretaceous. We dwelled within a cave high in the now-Andes. We ate our meat bloody and charred, rotating the trunks of species now epochs extinct upon old-growth spits. While I slept, she daubed the walls with mud and clay, hung anachronous wooden tablets, hinged in the middle, that she carved in bas-relief with her teeth. One night, a raptor slung over my shoulder, its crest’s feathers tickling the small of my back, I arrived home to find that she’d gnawed into a new tablet a house. Two stories, a cat in a window, two kids, one with long hair, the other short, the latter chasing the former across the porch. It was time to go back, she told me, looping her arms around my middle. But by then it was late. And I was tired, so tired. So I told her I no longer knew the way.