A cat. I look up in horror at its glassy eyes. A very dead cat.

I poke it once more to be sure. Yup, still dead.

I look around for more stuffed dead animals. I’ve seen people mount deer or even birds they hunted, but I’ve never heard of someone actually stuffing their dead pet to keep forever. That gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I think more than that, it makes me sad.

There are posters from old movies and a few framed records from some people I recognize, like Dolly Parton and Aretha Franklin, who I remember Miss Flora Mae mentioning, but others I’ve never heard of, like Stevie Nicks, Etta James, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Janis Joplin. A thin layer of dust coats the stacks of art books on her coffee table, and by the looks of it two people named Richard Avedon and Georgia O’Keeffe are her favorites.

I peek out into her sunroom, which is a small screened-in part of her porch you can only get to from inside the house. Her typewriter sits there by itself, and on her chair is a thick manila envelope with a note on top that says TO: PATRICIA. Carefully, I open the envelope and slide out a piece of paper addressed to me.

Dear Patricia,

This is my first batch of letters that Mr. Joe Salazar will be picking up for the paper. The letters should be left in my mailbox no later than Tuesday afternoon. In my kitchen, inside the utensil drawer, you’ll find a roll of stamps. Please put the letters left in my mailbox by Mr. Joe Salazar in a large envelope (find those inside the oven, where I keep important documents) and post them to me at my sister’s address.

DON’T. FORGET. TO. WATER. MY. PLANTS. And jazz music! Aretha! Talk radio causes them to wither—as it does to any living thing.

Sincerely,

Miss Flora Mae

I take the note and letters with me as I make my way into the kitchen, which is stocked with every type of canned food imaginable. When the zombie apocalypse strikes, I know where Cheese and I are going. It’s like the lady has stashed as many things as possible in her house so that she never has to leave.

The oven is stuffed with important papers, just like the note promised, but it’s actually kind of organized in here. If I weren’t still spooked, I might get a little nosy and dig around.

After guessing how many stamps I might need, I give the plants a quick watering (the music will have to wait) and lock up the front door as quickly as I can and run out to the mailbox with two large envelopes of letters in my hands—one is unanswered mail to be sent to Miss Flora Mae and the other is answered letters for Mr. Joe to publish in next week’s paper. Just as I open the mailbox, a single letter falls out.

I reach down to grab it, thinking maybe it’s just a piece of regular mail. But when I hold it under the moonlight, all I see is a totally blank envelope sealed with a sparkling heart sticker. I put the answered and unanswered letters in the mailbox, but I hold on to this loose one for a moment, trying to decide what to do with it, before shoving it in the pocket of my pajama pants. I don’t even have to read it, I tell myself. I’ll just hold on to it until I go back to Miss Flora Mae’s. Save myself a trip back into the house.