Back home, after a playdate with the trail mix woman and her daughter, Sandra, the house is quiet. The Kellers are out at a doctor’s appointment, and Suzy is sleepy, ready to be put down for a nap. She asks for Tiger, and Annie tells her that cats aren’t allowed in the room during little girls’ nap times. Suzy pouts and begins to cry, turning her back on Annie in the bed before she falls asleep.

Annie leaves the room, heads to her own to read Bright Lights, Big City. But a few short moments later, there’s a high-pitched giggle coming from Suzy’s room, and Annie is forced to bookmark the page, all those deliciously maddening descriptions of the city just out of her reach, receding to the back of her brain.

When she steps into the room, she acts before she thinks, grabbing Suzy away from the big window, where she’s followed the cat, her hands pressed against the panes, the cat’s corpulent body curled on the wide sill, watching Annie’s terror with easy satisfaction.

“You could have fallen out!” Annie cries at Suzy, clutching her, glaring at Tiger. But Suzy merely giggles, pointing at Tiger.

“Follow the leader!” she says, unaware that Annie’s hands are still shaking from seeing Suzy leaning over the windowsill, the scene replaying in her head, like an earworm jingle she can’t tune out. The window is childproofed, sure, but Annie has opened it herself, easily, on summer days to air out the room when Suzy isn’t in it.

The damn cat with its unearthly, flexible body must have woven itself in, maybe even through the baby gate. Annie tucks Suzy in again and grabs it by the scruff of its neck, ensconcing it safely in the laundry room, away from Suzy, away from Annie, shoved in there so it won’t slither its way in while Suzy is sleeping, curling up on her mouth until she stops breathing, stealing her breath. Annie had heard of that happening from her grandmother. Cats and toddlers really don’t mix, she thinks, eyeing Tiger’s empty food bowl. It doesn’t deserve to be fed right now.

She uses this pocket of time to go into her bathroom, grip her upper arms and squeeze the skin, twisting it until it blushes red.

She hears the slam of the front door, the hurried clatter of heels followed by the heavy clomp of loafers. She puts on her cardigan, tosses her hair back, says goodbye to the mirror.

She goes down to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner, crossing her arms so she can feel the tender spots beneath her sleeves, smiling to herself as she grits her teeth, the pain trickling up her neck the harder she presses.