When Rick’s father came by and gave him that rabbit, I hadn’t heard from him in three years. Boo for three years and suddenly he’s on my front porch in a pair of worn-out boots, saying he’s got a present for his boy. Rap, rap, rap. I put my hand on the screen door between us and held it closed. I hadn’t washed my hair for days.

I told him to leave it on the steps. He put the cage down and I could see something white moving around inside. I wondered if he still had the keys to my house that I’d made for him. I didn’t get mad until he started to walk away.

“Well,” I shouted after him. “How do I look?”

“Good,” he said, but he didn’t turn around. “You look good.”

Rick said he’d call it Slim.

My son liked to dress Slim in his clothes and carry him around, like a doll or a lucky charm. At first I thought this was cute, but then that rabbit started getting all fat and almost as big as Rick, and I got a little scared. Slim had nails and teeth and could do some damage. I kept an eye on him, but he wasn’t any trouble. He always hung limp in Rick’s arms, his big back thumper legs spread out and relaxed like he was waiting on something.

Rick made him a home in the backyard with an old lobster trap he’d dragged up from the beach. Rick’s nine. He’s resourceful. The wood was prickly and gray. When I’d get back from work, I’d find Rick out in the yard, adding something new to Slim’s hutch.

“Is this all you do after school till I come home?” I asked him. I pointed to our old push lawn mower leaning against the side of the house. “Why isn’t the grass cut? Where’s my turkey dinner?” Rick smiled—he knows when I’m joking—and worked on sticking a pile of speckled pebbles in a row, one by one, to a thin white line of Elmer’s glue. I dipped my finger in it. Sticky, sticky. Then I slid my hand between the bars of the cage and wiped it on the rabbit’s fur. Silky. Silky Slim.