Veronika Vermin (Chapter One)

Prologue

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We woke with the feeling that we weren’t quite alive. The earth was thick and sickeningly sweet all around us. Our first thought was that we were suffocating, although we didn’t quite know what “suffocating” meant. We felt fear. It didn’t feel good. The fear shed its skin, molting into the hideous beast of panic. It rocked our insides, setting our nerves on fire, begging to be free.

 

Some old, primitive part of our brain began to whir. We felt the last groggy dregs of sleep fall off us like fresh snow. Snow. We remembered it. A blinding expanse of white. Cold and wet on our… on our… on our what?

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The ancient part of our brain told us it didn’t matter. It was time to reach out. And so we did. We weren’t sure how we did it, just like we weren’t sure how we had awoken or how we were sustaining life in the first place. It just happened. First a tingle, then an itch, then words pulsing with the breaths of the Earth itself: Hello. Is there anybody out there? Hello.

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At first, there was only silence. That beast of panic seemed to flash its sharpened teeth at us in glee. 

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But then, then, a single vibration met us.

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Ba-bum.

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It came again, rocking the earth around us like a heartbeat.

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Ba-bum.

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Hello, we sent again. Can you find us?

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The heartbeat grew louder. Faster. More desperate.

 

And then she answered.

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Chapter One

 

On the first day of summer break, I find myself standing in front of Ms. Valentine’s room, pool net in hand, ready to meet my enemy.

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“I’m here to deal with the mouse,” I say to the door, my voice muffled by the thick plastic of my brother’s old hockey mask. “Ms. Valentine?” I rap my knuckles on the door again. 

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A few heads poke out of the neighboring rooms. Gray heads, bald heads, heads swaddled in comically large, Dickens-esque night caps. There’s nothing the residents of the nursing home love more than drama and there’s no drama greater than someone having the audacity to die on an perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

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I offer the familiar faces a friendly nod. The beige hallway is growing warm and stuffy now. Their excitement fills the space, hungry wolves circling a dead sheep.

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“Ms. Valentine… we just got new dining hall chairs… it would be a shame if you died before you got a chance to sit on them…”

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 The joke does nothing to alleviate the images of empty, milky white eyes crusted over with old mascara and cold blue fingers gone elastic at the knuckles that fill my mind faster than I can brush them away. Bile rises in my throat.

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I’ve seen three dead bodies in my life. Mr. Cohen, a frizzy-haired gentleman from unit 2B, was getting wheeled out by the coroners the first time I visited my mom at her new nursing home job. I was six-years-old and skipping through the halls with a strawberry soft serve cone from the dining hall. To this day, strawberry still tastes like the electric buzz of defibrillators. 

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Then, when I was helping out in the dining hall the summer Mom got promoted to manager, Mrs. Wattana told me my lemon orzo was terrible, fell face first in it, and croaked. I’d been pretty upset about ending the year with a B+ in history but Mrs. Wattana’s criticism of “so bad I died” stung a little worse.

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And then of course there was cranky, cat-loving Mr. Benes who shared a wall with Ms. Valentine. I was visiting Ms. Valentine for our weekly tea and gossip session just last week when we heard hacking from next door. We figured it was just another one of the neighborhood strays he’d smuggled in under Mom’s nose for a day of canned tuna and unabridged anecdotes about the Great Depression. But lo and behold when I went in to drop off his supper there he was, slumped over in his wheelchair, a dribble of jelly-like spit oozing down his stubbly chin, a black tabby circling his feet and licking the lint out from under his cold toenails.

Now I know the saying goes “good things come in threes” but I have no idea how many counts bad things are supposed to come in and four would be just my luck, so I bang on Ms. Valentine’s door, whispering, “Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead” as if the secret to immortality is just saying please enough.

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And then, miraculously, the door is creaking open and the smell of French roses and lemons fills my nostrils. Relief washes over me, like jumping into cold water, as Ms. Valentine peers into the hallway. Ms. Valentine, who always slips me her extra desserts. Ms. Valentine, who singlehandedly taught me Art History when my teacher’s vocabulary barely extended past “metaphor”. Ms. Valentine, alive. Her sunken eyes are lined with more wrinkles than I remember from just yesterday. Her frizzy, gray hair looks even more bedridden than usual, like it might take a bite out of the next person to take a comb to it. But she’s alive. Alive. Alive enough to turn and spit at the nosey neighbors, “Don’t wet your diapers, I’m not gone yet! And none of you are getting my Tiffany lamp. You hear me? None of you!”

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“Good morning, Ms. Valentine.” I beam. “I’m here to deal with your mouse problem.”

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Her lips turn downward in a grimace as she looks me up and down. Always a bright way to start the morning, being eyed up like you’re the reaper incarnate. “Good God, Veronika. Is that a sports mask? And why do you have a pool net? Are you having a psychotic breakdown?”

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“Oh, no, no.” I feel so light, I almost laugh as I push the hockey mask up to the top of my head. A few strands of long hair stick to my eyelashes and I have to blow a few times to move them. “Mom sent me to deal with your mouse problem. I wasn’t sure how bad it was. I thought I might have to fight my way in.”

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“I’d rather die of rabies than be woken up at 6 am again, you remember that.” Ms. Valentine jabs a pink-polished finger at me, then gestures into the room all the same. I follow her trailing, beige nightgown inside.

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“Congratulations on not being dead today, Ms. Valentine. Did you hear about the new dining chairs?”

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“I’m old, darling, not deaf. I think Mr. Benes could you hear you from the grave.”

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 The artificially bright hallway is swallowed up by the door as Ms. Valentine taps it shut. Her room glows a dim, golden brown. All of the units in the nursing home have overhead lights, big fluorescent things that remind me of school, but from the day she moved in Ms. Valentine refused to use them. “I’ll be staring at the big, white light in the sky soon enough. No need to start now.” Instead, she has an eclectic assortment of lamps strewn across the single-room apartment. Mosaic lamps and glass lamps and even one lamp that’s shaped like a tuxedo-wearing monkey smoking a cigar that she once told me said something about capitalism. All collected from her various travels around the world. I would’ve just gone with postcards. 

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To be honest, the apartment kind of gives me a headache, all the clashing patterns and piles of clutter. But I’d never tell Ms. Valentine that. If I did, I might end up with a wellness check called in in my honor like poor Mr. Rao.

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“Isn’t it the first day of summer?” Ms. Valentine says, stopping by a side table to light a stick of incense. “Shouldn’t you be out with your friends doing drugs or joining a gang? Is that what high schoolers get up to nowadays?” 

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“Yeah, maybe in Westside Story.” I grab the still flickering match Ms. Valentine left on her very combustible wooden table and give it a few extra shakes. “I don’t think any gangs would want me.”

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“Nonsense. Gangs are always looking for little bird-boned girls to sit in the corner and knit scarves while they kill people. It gets cold on the streets.” She waves the smoking stick of incense in front of her face, inhaling deeply before setting it in its gold leaf holder. 

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“Thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to bring that up with the career counselor next year.”

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She waves a dismissive hand at me but I catch a smile snagging the corner of her lips. She moves to the couch- a torn velvety plush that looks like something you’d see on the side of the road and have every human instinct scream at you not to touch- and settles between two cushions with a sigh. She looks tired. There are circles under her eyes. Maybe Ms. Merrylane next door kept her up late last night screaming about the apocalypse. Sometimes I wish the apocalypse would just hurry up and happen to save all our eardrums.

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“So where did you last see the mouse?” I ask.

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“Here, there, everywhere. He’s a mouse, darling, it’s not like we sit down in the evening and watch television together. Although I’m sure he’d make better company than half the men in here.” She rubs the bridge of her nose, seeming to recount memories long and very purposefully forgotten. “He does seem to have a particular taste for my slippers. The ones I got in Italy. Genuine sheepskin. The classy bastard.  There over there, under the armoire by my bed. Don’t mind the mess.”

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 “I probably will.” I slip the hockey mask back over my face as I move to the other side of the room. The living room blends seamlessly into the corner legally allowed to be called a bedroom. The large, red oak armoire sits raised on tall legs, facing her bed. The bed is unmade, standard-issue sheets lumpy and piled high like snowy mountains. It takes every morsel of willpower to stay on mission instead of sneaking off to make it.

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As if seeing the judgment on the back of my head, Ms. Valentine calls over from the couch, “What are you planning to do with that pool net anyway? It can’t be very effective. The pool’s had leaves in it since April.”

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“I watched a YouTube video on DIY mouse catching. They said you just need a long stick and something to catch it with. Pool net kills two birds with one stone. Clever, huh?” 

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“I-Tubes, We-Tubes, we used to have the great Library of Alexandria and now we have Joe Schmoe in his garage with a You-Phone.” 

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“Hey, I watched the video like five times. I’d say that puts me on par with the scholars.” Actually, I watched it closer to fifteen, analyzing every step, studying every movement. I even practiced the pool net’s swish and catch a few times in the nursing home garden. But if I tell Ms. Valentine that, I’ll never hear the end of it.

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As I approach the wardrobe, a pair of fluffy white slippers catch my eye. They’re tucked underneath, the heels just barely peeking out from the strip of dark shadows. I hold my breath. The little creature could be in there right now, greasy gray body curled around the shoe, disease-ridden fangs bared in horror. I swear I even catch a flick of a whisker. My mind slips into images of frothing people on hospital beds, gnawed thighs jabbed with long needles, too little, too late. Fever. Paralysis. Confusion. Aggression. Vomiting. I repeat the signs of rabies like Mayo Clinic is my bible, until I’m sure every symptom is burned into my brain.

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“Okay,” I say. “I’m going to poke it.”

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“Okay, darling. Say, have you heard of this newfangled contraption called a mouse trap? I hear they’re all the rage.”

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“Mom didn’t want me spending the extra money.” I take a tentative step towards the wardrobe. “Said I should try using stuff we already have here first. Budget restrictions after they stopped classifying ketchup as a suitable vegetable for you guys.” I raise the pool net. The blue netting at the end bumps clumsily against the wooden doors. These could be the last few moments of pleasant unknowing. For me. For the little vermin. The quiet before all hell breaks loose.  

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“I’m doing it,” I call.

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“I never doubted you for a moment,” says Ms. Valentine.

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The breath I was holding in is starting to sting. I let it out and quickly fill the space with air again, as if its emptiness might somehow invite fear. “Here I go,” I say, more to myself than her.

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I lower the net, tracing the grain of the wooden doors down until I reach the bottom edge of the wardrobe. Then, I move it down that final inch of darkness. I tap the slipper.

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Nothing happens.

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I tap it again.

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“Any luck?” Ms. Valentine asks.

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“Nothing yet.” I feel a little braver and take a step forward, patting the stick against the heel of the slipper.

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“So I don’t suppose your mother is giving you any compensation for your work then?” Ms. Valentine says. She seems to have gotten bored with the couch and is now making a raucous sorting through a pile of books on the coffee table.

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“Budget restrictions,” I repeat, sliding the left slipper out with the pool net. 

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“Ah yes. And were there budget restrictions last month when she had you hand delivering supper to the rooms? Or last year when she had you cleaning out Ms. Merrylane’s piss bag?”

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“It was my honor to clean out Ms. Merrylane’s piss bag.” I slide the other slipper out. “Plus, it gave me something good to write about in that AP essay about the trials and tribulations of the modern teenager.”

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With both slippers fully removed, it becomes clear to me that although there may be enough gray hair tangled into the fabric of them to build a mouse, there is no mouse currently occupying it. But the dark space beneath the armoire still catches my attention. The video talked about mice being sneaky, loving dark spaces and all that. I take another step forward and slide the pool net across the floor, into the darkness. “Any particular reason you hate my mother today? Or just the usual?”

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“Just hoping someday my indignation might rub off on you. You’re sixteen-years-old, Veronika. You deserve to be out there, enjoying your life. Not stuck in here with the walking dead.”

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“I’m fine, Ms. Valentine. I told you, it’s good to be useful. I love it here.” I ram the pool net into the space and wriggle it furiously around. “See? So much fun.” Nothing comes loose, so I wriggle harder, banging it against the wall now. “This is supposed to work. This is supposed to set it loose. You whack it around where the mouse hangs out most and it comes out. Why isn’t it working?”

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Ms. Valentine makes her way over to the wardrobe and leans against the wall. “Maybe he’s somewhere else. Maybe he took a vacation. You could learn a thing or two from him. Take the rest of the day off, Veronika, it looks gorgeous out. I’d be out there soaking up the sun in my birthday suit if it wasn’t for my damn gout.”

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“No,” I grunt. The wardrobe trembles, plastic hangers clacking against each other. “I’ll get it. Just watch the wardrobe and see if he comes out the bottom, okay? Okay?”

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I glance up but Ms. Valentine isn’t watching the wardrobe. She’s watching me. Her lips are pursed. There’s something like pity in her eyes.

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“I know, I know,” I say. “But I’ll get it. I promise.”

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“I’m not worried about that.”

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“Then what are you worried about?”

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“I’m worried about you. And I’m thinking your brother might have had the right idea after all.”

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My hands go cold. The pool net stops moving. It falls heavy in my fingers.

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She continues even though I really wish she wouldn’t. “I mean look at you, cooped up in here on a perfectly good summer day, whacking the wall and hoping a mouse will come out. You know better than anyone how much Andrew was doing around here. Maybe he’d just had enough. Maybe he just needed a break. He certainly deserved it. Sixteen-years-old and running this place like he bought it himself. It would be too much for anyone.”

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I suddenly feel stupid and small in the oversized hockey mask. Andrew’s hockey mask. He scored twenty-six goals in the thing. I feel like a kid playing dress-up. I rip the hockey mask off along with a few strands of staticky hair and let them all fall to the ground beside me. My words come out in a low mumble, “Yeah, well, I’m sorry I can’t be like him. I know he’s better at all this stuff than me. But I’m trying. I promise I’m trying, okay?” Tears sting my eyes, overpowering my ability to will them away. That makes me feel even angrier at myself.

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“Oh no, darling, no. That’s not what I meant at all!” Ms. Valentine sweeps over, her silk nightgown sleeve draping over my shoulder as she gently guides me to sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re doing great. Grand, even. I just don’t want you to burn yourself out.”

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I wonder if she ever sat Andrew down, when he fixed her heater, when he helped her with her taxes. Did she tell him not to burn himself out? Did she ever have to?

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“You should talk to your mother about it,” Ms. Valentine says. “Have you?”

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I shake my head. My jaw is set. I don’t meet her gaze. “She’s been busy.”

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“She’s always busy.”

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“Yeah, well, her boss is coming in a couple days. You know the guy. That nursing home slumlord of the east coast. We don’t exactly have time for heart to hearts. Maybe next week-”

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“Next week, next week. It’s always next week. But with everything that’s happened over the past few months, losing your brother-” 

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“I didn’t lose him.”

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“Nobody seems to know where he is.”

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“Yeah, but he’s not dead.”

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“I know, darling. All I’m saying is that it’s a lot for anyone to handle.”

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“No. It’s really not. Maybe it’s a lot for me to handle. Maybe I’m doing a shit job of it. And I’m sorry about that. But that’s why if I can just catch this damn mouse before Mom’s boss gets here, maybe I can finally do something right. Ok? So, please, Ms. Valentine. Help me out. Where else do you think it could be?”

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“Where else could what be?”

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“The mouse.” I look up at her, dabbing at my nose with a tissue from my pocket. She just stares right back at me. At first I think she’s playing dumb on purpose, as a joke, but there’s something strange about her gaze. Like she’s not seeing me as Veronika the person, but instead Veronika the amorphous blob of human-like shapes. “Ms. Valentine?”

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“What? Yes. What are you doing with that pool net, anyway? We’re not at the pool.”

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“I know… I’m catching the mouse. Remember? I saw it in a YouTube video.”

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“I-Tubes, We-Tubes, we once had the Great Library of Romania, no…” She taps at her head, like there’s some pesky fly buzzing around in there.

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My heart starts to pound against my chest. “Are you feeling okay?”

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“Yes, yes, yes. I just need… incense. I need to light some incense.”

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“You already lit some, remember? The place is practically fumigated by lavender.”

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“I would remember if I lit incense!” She snaps. 

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“Ok, ok, sorry.” 

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She starts to stand, pressing her hair behind her ear over and over again.

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Something sick and heavy is sliding around in my stomach. I stand with her, letting the pool net clatter to the ground. “Hey, wait. Maybe I should call someone.” I reach out for her elbow and she moves faster than I’ve ever seen before, whacking my hand out of the way.

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“Don’t touch me!”

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I stumble backwards, struck by her tone, her touch. I raise my hands up, although I’m not exactly sure why. Her gaze is on me like police headlights. Her anger feels like sirens blaring in my mind.

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What did I do? What did I do?

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“Ms. Valentine,” I mean for it to come out strong, brave, confident, but it’s more like a whimper.

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Her piercing gaze immediately softens. She shakes her head, like a dog shaking off water. Her hands tremble slightly. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, Veronika. You know how I get in the mornings.”

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“Sure. Of course,” I say, shakily. I know she gets snippy at chirpy aides in the mornings. I know she curses the sunlight in the mornings. But never anything like this.

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“I’m so sorry, Veronika,” she repeats and her voice all woolen soft scares me even more than when she shouted.

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“Look, why don’t I make some tea? Calm us both down.”

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I reach out tentatively for her arm and this time she takes it. I help her back down to the edge of the bed. “Just sit here. I’ll bring it.”

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She nods and quietly adds, “Getting old is awful. Never do it.”

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“I’ll try my best,” I say, my voice shaky as I attempt to return the smile.

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I cross the apartment, my brain still rolling and tumultuous, the nerves still tingling at the edges of my skin. I see her face carved in anger. I feel her words stabbing me in the chest. 

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I pass back through the living room to the opposite corner of the apartment, her tiny kitchenette. None of the apartments have proper, full kitchens here. There’s a small dining hall available to all the residents at the center of the building, but each apartment has a corner sectioned off with smooth, tan tiles and a miniature sink. Ms. Valentine’s counter only has three things on it- a tea kettle, a jar of tea bags, and a blurry polaroid of an albino squirrel labeled France 1982. I don’t know if France is the squirrel’s name or the location, but knowing Ms. Valentine I’d guess both. 

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Seeing the photo eases something in my stomach anyway. Something familiar I guess. A reminder of the Ms. Valentine I know, not the one who held her body a couple minutes ago.

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But as I fill the tea kettle with warm water, that roiling part of my brain begs for my attention. 

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You were whining about Andrew. You were short with her. You got angry first. She was only reacting to what you said. She’s probably just sick of you always whining, always complaining.

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I push the thoughts aside. Mouse. I just need to worry about catching this mouse. Pool net over the culprit seems easiest. Of course there are other kinds of traps. Glue traps. Bucket traps.

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What if she likes Andrew better?

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The thought shakes loose as I set the tea kettle down on its hot plate, startling me almost as much as the loud beep of the on button.

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I grind my teeth and reach for the jar of tea bags. It doesn’t matter if she likes Andrew better. Andrew isn’t here.

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What if Andrew is just better?

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The tea jar’s lid pops off easily, not quite put back in its place last time. I set it on the counter with a loud thunk.

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“Everything ok?” Ms. Valentine calls.

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“Yep, awesome.” I answer. Because everything is awesome. It doesn’t matter if Andrew is relaxing on a beach in Miami or halfway across the world finding inner peace with Tibetan monks. He’s gone. I’m here. I jam my hand into the jar. And today, I’m finding a mouse.

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What if everyone will always be better?

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Sick of my own woodpecker of a brain, I squeeze a particularly soft tea bag a little too hard and it squeaks.

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It squeaks.

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Then I’m not worrying about how I rank on the grand scale of Veronika to Andrew, I’m just screaming bloody murder and leaping back from the counter. The glass jar wobbles on the edge for a moment, just a moment, before plummeting to the floor with an ear-splitting shatter. Tea bags and glass and, yes, a small furry body slide across the kitchenette tiles.

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“Veronika!” Ms. Valentine cries.

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“The mouse!” I shriek. 

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The mouse seems to scream too in its own disgusting, squeaky way as it scrambles over the tea bags, detangling itself from their long threaded strings. It’s small and gray, almost like a dust bunny, with trembling white whiskers and soulless, beady eyes. Its nose is pink. It shivers at me and pauses for a moment, only a moment, as we both try to assess who’s moving first.

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I win. I leap to my feet, stumbling across the room to retrieve my pool net.

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“Veronika! What on earth is going on?” Ms. Valentine is standing now but I brush by her, turning with the pool net the second it meets my fingers.

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“Found the mouse,” I say, darting across the room back to the kitchenette. Excitement pings in my chest like stovetop popcorn. Now’s my chance. Now’s my chance. Andrew be damned, now’s my chance to finally fix something for myself.

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The mouse seems to have found its footing. I see a gray blur trip across the shattered glass, gliding over the carpet and under the couch.

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I swing the pool net at it. It catches a lamp shade and the whole lamp rolls to the floor.

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“Veronika!” Ms. Valentine cries.

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“Don’t worry, I’ve got it!”

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I watch the slippery, flicking tail emerge from the other side of the couch and dart to the side table, up the slender leg, across its glossy wood surface and under the smoking stick of incense.

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Whack, whack, whack. I bring the net down on the floor, on the leg, on the table, each time missing the mouse by what seems like milliseconds. Ash puffs out from the end of the incense stick, settling in swirling shadows on the arm of the couch.

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“Come on!” I grunt.

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The mouse leaps heroically from the table, pausing for a moment as it makes contact with the ground. 

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Got it, I think, clambering onto the couch to get a better angle as I bring my pool net down.

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But my foot catches between the stupid, fluffy cushions and I go falling sideways.

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“Veronika!” Ms. Valentine’s voice is firm now. “Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself!”

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My shoulder makes contact with another lamp. I know this because suddenly there’s an electrical cord whacking my neck and the golden orb of light illuminating the couch extinguishes. Pain ripples up my shoulder but all I can see, all I can think, is mouse, mouse, mouse.

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The mouse recovers from its jump and decides to make a full loop back to the kitchenette. I crawl off the couch, pool net raised above my head, feeling a bit like Ms. Merrylane when she was convinced Mr. Rao’s cold was some kind of zombie plague and decided to take matters into her own hands with a toilet plunger.

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The mouse scampers over the broken glass. I scamper with it. Glass crunches beneath my shoes and I fall to my knees, feeling tiny jolts of pain erupt around my kneecaps. Closer and closer. I crouch, bring the pool net down. I almost have it. If I could just slow down and plan… but the promise of victory is shining too brightly before me. It blinds me. I bring the pool net down in one hasty smack after another. And just as the blue netting finally finds some purchase against the mouse’s rear, my voice already calling out, my fingers brushing the finish line, the creature lunges forward and slips through an impossibly small, impossibly dark hole cutting through the wall Ms. Valentine shares with Mr. Benes. 

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“No!” I shout, quickly swinging the pool net back before I can process that the flicking pink tail has already disappeared into the darkness. But it doesn’t matter. The pool net never makes it back to the ground. Instead, it whacks against something on the counter’s surface. And then I feel all two liters of the tea kettle tip off the hot plate and ram into my skull.

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Deep, throbbing pain blossoms in my the back of my head as the kettle finishes its tango with gravity by rolling down the side of my body and splitting open on the ground. Hot water rushes out to join the broken glass and I scramble to my feet before any of it can really touch me, my head pounding, the pain so loud its radiating down my neck now.

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Ms. Valentine has reached the edge of the kitchenette. It’s a rare feat to make her go speechless but here she is, lips open but unmoving, taking in the mess of her apartment. She holds her long drapey sleeves out to me. “What… what happened? Are you hurt?”

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But it’s not over yet. It can’t be. There’s still a chance the mouse went straight through to Mr. Benes’s empty apartment.

“Almost done,” I say, ignoring Ms. Valentine’s protests as I run out of her apartment, down the hall, and throw my shoulder into the neighboring door. The deep ache rattling my skull doesn’t matter. The way darkness taps its fingers against the edges of my vision doesn’t matter. The icy pain prickling my kneecaps doesn’t matter. I shove my elbow full force into Mr. Benes’s door and next thing I know, I’m stumbling through the doorway.

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It’s dark in here. Nearly pitch black, even. But the first thing I notice is actually the heat. A wave of it smacks against me. It reminds me of crouching in front of an open oven. It burns my face, hotter than kettle water. It makes my head throb even worse as the muscles expand against my forehead.

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And then, as my eyes adjust, I notice is the girl. She looks about my age, although the exact shape of her is obscured by shadows. The small window’s single beam of sunlight only illuminates the side of her face- long, rounded jaw, big, golden glasses, box braids interwoven with what looks like delicate, green vines. Her lips are pursed in what seems like mild disappointment, sweat tracing their outline. “Oh, shoot.” Her voice has the tinkling quality of wind chimes. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

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“What?” I whisper, my voice catching when I follow her gaze to the center of the room.

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There, spotlit by the sunlight, is my mouse. Which should be a good thing. Except the mouse isn’t on the floor and for some reason that’s not quite making sense in my already pounding brain. There’s the floor, all carpeted and freshly vacuumed, and there’s the mouse, just one foot above it, whiskers trembling, little legs kicking at the empty air but moving nowhere. I squint my eyes, waiting for whatever optical illusion this is to fade, for my brain to make the switch and say, Ah, yes, of course that mouse isn’t partaking in a real-life mid-jump cut-to-credits freeze frame but in fact there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this and that reason is... 

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Any minute now my brain will fill in the end of that sentence. 

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Any minute.

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And when it doesn’t, I look up at the girl and say, “What the hell?”

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And she looks back at me and says, “Hey, Andy’s sister.” 

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And the feeling that washes over me then almost makes me wish I were back in middle school killing Mrs. Wattana with my lemon orzo.

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