“Oh, Peter.” At the top of the staircase, she can feel the migraine coming, encroaching like a thundercloud: Phil’s absence is as unsettling as his presence. Her son’s gotten ahold of some poor animal; he ascends the stairs with a cool and pleasant purposefulness, his arms full of fur. “I told you not to do that in the house.”

“I’m not doing anything, Rose.” Her son holds the old tomcat by the scruff of the neck, supporting it from beneath in the crook of his arm even as it struggles and complains — its look is thin and filthy with a mud-speckled tabby coat, nothing like the pussycats she’s known. Still, she can’t bear the thought of such a little thing gassed to death and laid out with pins through it. Poor thing’s never been handled in his life, no doubt; the bared claws prick holes in Peter’s good shirt like a circus performer clinging to the net.

“Can’t a cat have rabies?”

“This one doesn’t. He’s just unhappy, that’s all.” Peter rubs his thumb over the cat’s whiskered chin, risking the teeth, and gradually the creature falls docile. Maybe Mrs. Lewis will want him for the rats in the cellar.