She decides to leave the cage unlocked. For this, the snake rewards her. Mr. Green disappears from her nightmares, and the roaches that used to scurry around her kitchen are gone. When she opens her cabinet and finds him mingling with the stems of her wineglasses, she knows that he will not break any, and indeed he doesn’t. He slides out silently onto her shoulder. She holds her breath as he passes her face—the scales are so close—the flat white underside of his body touches her collarbone. The weight of him there feels like a blessing, and when he winds his way around her arm and then hesitates, squeezing, not knowing where to go next, she walks over to the sofa, to the seat cushions he likes to sleep underneath, and gently lets him go.

At work, she files. She types letters. She prepares coffee and arranges napkins and creamers. Around her people talk about plans for the weekend, or sports teams, or television shows. When they see her pass by, they ask about paper clips. She is in charge of ordering office supplies, keeping a record of sticky notes and Wite-Out. The memorization skills she was so grateful for in medical school are now used to recite available sizes and colors.

When the Xerox machine breaks, a group gathers near her desk, pleading. She is the only one who knows the right buttons to push, the nooks and crannies where problems tend to stick. She finds the trouble, near the feeder, a piece of paper folded tightly like an accordion. Her coworkers clink coffee mugs and slap her on the back.

These are her rewards, the highlights of her day. The job is easy. Her coworkers are all good people and she likes them. Her boss is kind and apologizes before assigning work. I’m so sorry. As if collating were the hardest possible labor.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s not a problem.”

At five o’clock she trips getting into the elevator. People move aside, but no one helps her up, as if they know she is here on false pretenses. The door closes and the car goes down. She sits for a moment on the floor, feeling the pull, and thinks about the snake sliding around her things at home.

The smell of Fred has left her sheets. She almost does not notice when it happens, and then she does. She has not washed the sheets for this very reason, rolling in dirt and pieces of her own skin for over a month. She feels abandoned by the smell, like a patient deserted in the middle of an operation, chest open, ribs spread.