Shawna dusts off her pants. “Let me come in for a coffee.”

“You should go.”

Before Shawna opens her mouth, Carla closes the door on the woman’s wild hair, the skin sinking around her lips.

Inside, Carla leans against the door, exhausted. She’s proud of saying no. She so rarely can. The snow is heavier now, though the sky is blue. She pulls down the venetian blinds. Buttery stripes of sunlight fall in line on the carpet. She’ll pretend, for as long as she can fool herself, that it’s nighttime, that the Mifflin Street Fair is over, that the undergraduates are safe in their beds, having escaped her tonight.

An unsettling feeling slides through her. Her apartment is too quiet. She approaches the ferret’s cage, bumping her hips against furniture, hissing swears. Usually the ferrets are shifting against each other, walking on the wires, making their muffled chirp. There’s enough light to discern a bulge in the pocket of their hammock, but why are they asleep? Her return always wakes them.

She loses her balance in the dark and braces herself against the cage. The bleach bottle sits by the door. She must have gotten it into their food bowl, or on the metal pipe of their water bottle. Or maybe they rubbed their humpbacks against the cage and then groomed themselves.

A chill slithers under her skin. She rips open the door and reaches into the fleece sleeve of the hammock. Her fingers meet warm bodies. She pulls them out, a ferret in each fist. They’re groggy and limp but alive. She wants to leap into the air. That’s when the smell reaches her: sweet and sticky. The newly cleaned litter box is splashed with waste, splotches coat the bars and the plastic ball. There’s fluid everywhere. They must’ve evacuated their entire bowels. She barely gets them out before she throws up on the wall-to-wall carpeting. She forces her shaky body upright and carries the ferrets to the couch, where she lays them down.

There they lie, still and stretched out, the seams on their bellies rising only with labor. Her own breath stops. Her charges, her little sweeties. She needs their wiggly noses reanimated, needs to chase them under the bed and into the trash can. She can’t be alone. All her progress will be reversed if she kills her own ferrets.

She squats and examines their frosted eyes. Any sickness in a creature so small must be fatal. Animals gather all their energy to hide symptoms. They’re beautiful, lying there, their fur luminous. She genuinely loves them. She’s never truly loved them before. She knows that now.

She fills a ramekin to the brim with water. She sets it on the couch and lifts weasel chins to the meniscus. The ferrets nose around, water beading on whiskered snouts. In unison, they drink greedily, dark spots pooling on the couch as they bury their faces as deep as they can, as though tastier reserves lie lower.

Pink tabs of tongue pop from furry chins. As water fills their long bodies, their coats grow shinier, their eyes brighter. Warmth glows in Carla. She’ll do better for them from now on. She’ll give them the care they deserve. She snuggles into the back of the couch. Maybe she’ll tell Pooja about Dave after all. Maybe Pooja will affirm that Carla did her best in the situation, so she can finally let it rest. She lifts Boo high into the air. His head wags loosely. When he reaches her face, he opens his mouth. He’ll bite if she draws him closer.