The Sausalito house was specifically chosen for its fog.
Not normal fog.
According to Saturn, this particular section of the coastal atmosphere possessed:
- "marine emotional neutrality"
- "non-predatory moisture"
- and "ideal energetic diffusion patterns."
Personally, I believed it was just the weather.
Unfortunately, the weather had apparently become medically relevant.
By the time we arrived, the hillside estate had already been converted into what looked like a spiritual containment facility for beautiful people.
The house itself sat high above the cliffs overlooking the bay, wrapped in drifting silver fog and lined with floor-to-ceiling windows designed specifically, according to Blaze, "to let the soul breathe laterally."
I no longer questioned phrases like that.
Questioning things only slowed us down.
"Wait," Saturn said sharply as we reached the entrance.
Everyone froze.
He pulled a strange silver device from his coat pocket and lifted it toward the air dramatically.
The device hummed softly.
Tiny lights flickered across its surface.
Blaze leaned forward anxiously.
"Well?"
Saturn studied the readings with grave intensity.
"...The fog density is promising."
A collective exhale swept through the group.
One healer sat down immediately from relief.
Marianne, meanwhile, looked clinically deceased.
At some point during the flight she had stopped emotionally participating in reality altogether.
She stood near the staircase wrapped in a blanket staring into space while drinking espresso with the detached numbness of a woman who had witnessed too much human behavior.
A medic approached me quietly.
"Sir," he said carefully, "your assistant attempted to pay the helicopter pilot in crystals."
"That sounds right."
"We think she needs rest."
"Good luck."
Nearby, Lucien stepped slowly out onto the terrace wrapped in layered sweaters and soft cream-colored scarves while the coastal fog drifted around him dramatically.
Immediately, Saturn raised another device toward the sky.
"What now?" I asked.
"I'm measuring atmospheric compassion."
Of course he was.
The device beeped twice.
Saturn's eyes widened.
"Oh my God."
Blaze grabbed his arm.
"What?"
"The moisture levels are emotionally stable."
The entire household erupted into relieved chaos.
People hugged.
Someone cried openly near the fireplace.
A woman rang a ceremonial bell.
Lucien closed his eyes slowly as the fog rolled around him.
"I can breathe again," he whispered.
Blaze nearly collapsed emotionally.
"Thank God."
For the first time in forty-eight hours, the energy inside the house softened slightly.
Lucien stopped whispering about feeling cosmically observed.
The crystals stopped cracking spontaneously.
One of the healers even smiled.
And then Marianne collapsed near the kitchen island.
Complete silence.
Everyone turned.
She lay motionless on the hardwood floor still clutching an espresso.
The medic sighed heavily.
"Yeah," he said. "That was coming."
Three hours later, Marianne had been transported to a private recovery suite in San Francisco while the rest of us remained inside what was now being referred to as "the fog stabilization perimeter."
Apparently she was suffering from acute spiritual fatigue exposure.
I honestly wasn't sure if that was a real diagnosis anymore.
At this point anything seemed possible.
"Lucien's improving," Blaze informed me quietly that evening while checking candles around the living room.
"That's good."
"But everyone else is beginning to destabilize."
I stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
Before he could answer, the front doors opened.
The psychiatrist arrived precisely at sunset.
She was unlike any human being I had ever encountered.
Tall.
Elegant.
Dressed entirely in layered silver-gray fabrics that moved like smoke when she walked.
Her hair shimmered pale white beneath the fog-diffused light while strange metallic jewelry glowed softly along her wrists and throat.
She looked less like a psychiatrist and more like an oracle from a future where therapy had become legally classified as sorcery.
The room fell silent as she entered.
Even Saturn looked intimidated.
"She's moon-aligned," he whispered reverently.
Naturally.
The psychiatrist approached Lucien first.
Without speaking, she gently placed two fingers against his wrist and closed her eyes.
The entire room held its breath.
Several moments passed.
Then her expression darkened.
"Oh," she said softly.
Nobody liked that tone anymore.
She turned slowly toward me.
"How long has he been exposed to spiritually conflicting commercial environments?"
I hesitated.
"...Define conflicting."
"Chain retail. Airport fluorescent lighting. Aggressive architecture. Corporate coffee."
Blaze looked suddenly alarmed.
Saturn went still.
The psychiatrist narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Something precipitated this."
Nobody spoke.
The fog drifted silently outside the windows.
Finally, the psychiatrist stepped into the center of the room and addressed all of us calmly.
"This household requires a complete aura cleansing."
Several people gasped.
Saturn sat down immediately.
Blaze whispered, "Dear God."
"What does that involve?" I asked cautiously.
"Forty-eight hours without mirrors, processed sugar, artificial fragrances, or emotionally disruptive conversations."
Lucien looked terrified.
"No mirrors?"
"You'll survive."
"I don't know if I will."
The psychiatrist ignored him.
"Additionally, everyone in this house must undergo energetic decontamination."
At that exact moment, from somewhere upstairs, someone screamed because a candle had "turned judgmental."
The psychiatrist didn't even react.
Clearly, she'd seen worse.
Then she looked at me.
Directly.
Calmly.
"One final question," she said. "What actually precipitated this sequence of events?"
The room became very quiet.
I glanced toward Lucien.
Then toward Blaze.
Then Saturn.
Finally, I answered honestly.
"...I asked him if he wanted to go to Starbucks."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The psychiatrist stared at me.
Blaze covered his mouth in horror.
Saturn physically recoiled.
Lucien looked deeply wounded.
And then the psychiatrist fainted.