ALVIN WANDERED AROUND the sixth floor, pausing by one of the doors to look at the passengers getting off the bus and going into the station. He eeny-meeny-miny-moed the passengers until his finger stopped on a man with a mustache. He started following him, but got tired of it after a few moments. He turned around and bounded down the stairs, arriving on the fourth floor panting, and stopped next to the McDonald’s. He pressed his face against the window, ogling an elderly couple eating corn sticks and drawing the possibly-rabbit’s box to the window thinking she wanted to see them too. A piece of corn stick dropped out of the woman’s mouth, and her husband rushed to shoo Alvin away with menacing arm-flailing. He quickly retreated, leaped up a different staircase, and found himself smack in the middle of a small forest of Christmas trees. Amid the trees were a few tables laden with colorful Christmas decorations and chubby Santa figurines. He reached out to one of the trees and touched the pointed leaves. They were both prickly and soft. He wondered whether leaves felt pain. He plucked a leaf off one of the smaller trees, used his other hand to open the plastic box, and tossed it in. The leaf landed on the possibly-rabbit’s head; she responded in utter indifference, wouldn’t so much as raise her head.

“Yo, chopstick, whatcha doing over there?” the salesperson yelled. “Either buy something or get lost.”

Alvin fled, fixing his eyes on the dirty tiles. It was only when he reached the pay phone that he felt he was finally out of danger. He leaned against the wall and held his left hand to his chest, making sure his heart was still beating. He lifted the box and peered at his possibly-rabbit, calming down only after he saw she was breathing. Then he resumed his stroll and popped into the record shop minutes before closing time.

“Do you have a Beables CD?” he asked the saleswoman, and pulled from his pocket the bill he had received from the tall-woman-with-the-chin-hair.

“There’s no such band,” the saleswoman replied, chewing a gray wad of bubblegum.

“Bearbes. Beaters. Bealbez,” Alvin said. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Watch your language,” the saleswoman reprimanded him. Alvin shrunk into himself. She turned around, and then tossed a burned CD of Abbey Road onto the table.

“Beatles,” she said and snatched the bill out of his hand, holding it up to the light.

The photo on the cover was faded. George Harrison’s body was cropped in the middle. Struggling to hold both the box and the CD, he decided to chuck the CD into the box. The possibly-rabbit made no objection. She hopped onto the CD, put her head on McCartney’s bare feet, and fell asleep.