After she drew the curtains and we said goodnight to the darkening outside world, Ellison asked me many questions about this new person, Clare: questions like, was it wrong to love someone after only knowing them for two months? Or, how can someone with such a horrible childhood still turn out so wonderful?

I didn’t always listen, because this wasn’t very interesting to me, and it can be difficult to pay close attention when the top of your head and your ears are being rubbed so pleasantly and carefully. But I began seeing Clare more often, usually after Ellison had dinner and the sun had gone down. On occasion, Ellison would cook for her, filling the apartment with strange and powerful smells. Clare even shared a spoonful of it with me once, a warm, creamy dish with no meat. It was a bit salty for my taste, but I found it surprisingly delicious.

They talked for a long while after they ate, sat there without moving, and I found it very still and tedious, so I’d slink off to the bed, where I could rest in comfort and watch squirrels scurry up my favorite knobby tree just outside the big window. I never understood why Ellison and Clare, and any other people who came to our home, took the outside world and its mysteries for granted—walking past a window without even a glance, missing the thrilling events unfolding just inches away: a bird surveying the brown earth for the first sign of movement, a thin branch rustling before a storm, a sparkling dragonfly escaping the jaws of a bat.

It had been several days since I’d seen Clare. Ellison came home and went directly to bed without bothering to provide my dinner, which was abnormal for her. She flopped onto her side and didn’t move at all, except for her back which seemed to be shaking. Concerned and curious, I settled into a spot near her arms, which were folded out in front of her. Her eyes were closed and her face was a pinkish color and damp, like she’d dunked it in a bowl of water. I realized quickly that she was distraught. She opened her eyes, and the sight of me come to visit her seemed to make her even more emotional. Her shaky hand reached out and delicately petted my head.

“Why are people terrible, Dorito?” she said.

She then collapsed in on herself and closed her eyes again. She was sick, I could tell. Based on her words, the sickness had to do with people—Clare, I suspected. She was the one she talked about the most. Had she infected her? If so, she wouldn’t be welcome in our home any further.

I nuzzled her limp hand. She weakly scratched my chin, like it were an obligation.

“Of course it’s my fault. Not hers. I’m the one that’s crazy for wanting commitment. I’m the one desperate enough to wait around while she figures out what the fuck she wants. It’s me stabbing my own heart over and over again, not her, right? Her hands are clean.”

Her voice was high-pitched and strained, an indicator of pain—I knew from experience, as my cries had sounded similar earlier that week, when I had gotten tangled in some long wire while chasing a particularly cunning ladybug, and the glowing object on the desk fell and knocked me on my head.

The words she said made little sense, so I decided to focus on enjoying the strokes, passive as they were. I curled into a comfortable position and pressed my body against hers; perhaps the warmth and comfort could transfer and begin to heal the sickness. She cried for a very long time, and said many things, some of which did not relate to one another, but I was able to surmise that Clare was indeed the culprit. The words Clare had said had somehow made her sick—quite a severe sickness it was, keeping her bedridden for hours.

I drifted into a pleasant sleep, but awoke some time later to a sharp knock on the front door. I opened my eyes. It was much darker than before. My favorite tree was shaking slightly in the wind, a mighty black shape against the purplish sky. The squirrels were likely settling into their hollows for the night.

Ellison sat up. The knock sounded again, and I realized it was Clare—she had a particular, rapid way of knocking. Before I could stop her, Ellison said “Shit,” wiped her face, stood up, and stumbled towards the hallway. I leaped off the bed.

“No! It isn’t safe! She is sick!” I called out after her, chasing her feet.

But she did not listen. “Oh, you poor baby!” she said, as if remembering I existed. “You’re starving!”