Lili looked at Laura and raised her eyebrows. But Laura was a sticker, and she was sticking with Nina tonight.

When they reached Nina’s apartment, Nina was relieved to find Phil already inside, grooming his paws and sorting his candy. Her boyfriend, Tom, who was good with his hands and therefore a keeper, had put in a cat door. Phil had been delighted, and capturing and transporting things from outside to inside became an all-consuming hobby. He was currently working on a collection of leaves, and Nina rarely woke up in the morning without at least one on her pillowcase. During a dark but mercifully brief period, it was snails; one time she opened her eyes to see a small cellar glass snail not two inches from her nose and created motion from rest that would have impressed Newton. Leaves were a big improvement.

Nina looked closely at the floor. “Check carefully before you sit down. He brought in one of those giant cockroach things the other day.”

Laura turned to leave.

“I’m joking,” said Nina. “He’s too single-minded for that. He’s one hundred percent focused on killing all the bougainvillea.” Three of the little red leaf-pod thingies were strewn about the floor, each punctuated by tiny pairs of teeth holes. The fight had been brutal, and years of cat experience told Laura it probably hadn’t even been brief.

“Moment of silence for the fallen,” said Nina lightly, picking them up. “It’s a pity he’s not bigger. The neighbor has a lemon tree he could raid.” She looked at Phil, who paused in washing his leg, the tip of his tongue still barely visible. “He’s turned out to be such a ninja.” Phil had resumed his bath, and was struggling to balance on his butt. He gave up, and toppled to one side on Nina’s bed. Within seconds he was asleep.

Nina sighed. “Like I said, a warrior.”

She went over to her tiny kitchen and pulled a half bottle of wine from the fridge.

“I’m glad that annual experience is over,” she said, fake shuddering. “I always love the concept of these traditional things. There are loads—a spring fair, a summer festival, this pumpkin thing, Christmas caroling—but they’re better in theory than execution. I love the two weeks of pleasant anticipation, and I’m always glad I actually (a) left the house and (b) did something I said I would do, which feels virtuous.” She pulled the cork, which scared the cat, and added, “Plus a sense of contributing to the common something or other, then the genuine joy of arriving at whatever it is and smelling the same smells, seeing the same things, and getting a full, fat five minutes of deep joy.” She closed her eyes briefly, remembering, then snapped them open. “But then I can’t wait to get home.”