Molly pictured a soft, wobbling skyscraper, bright with knitted stripes. Far more inviting than dreary playing cards. Beth’s versions were always better.

“I have an hour, Molly. You never call.”

The leash was coiled on the floor, spring-loaded, ready to strike. If Molly dumped the news on Beth now, she’d ruin the presentation. “I’ll talk to you when you get home? Good luck.”

“Okay. Kiss the beast.”

A pang ripped through Molly. She should’ve told Beth. But she also shouldn’t have let Chowder off leash. As long as she was wishing.

She leaned back in the armchair. She’d wait until the panel started, then leave a message. She tried to relax into the upholstery, tried to enjoy these last hours of calm, but she couldn’t settle. There was Chowder’s rawhide, his deflated teddy bear, his vulgar, bald tennis ball, all the toys that would never be squeezed or squished, thrown or caught, eaten or slurped on again. She gathered his possessions. She hid his bag of kibble under the sink, on top of the last inch of drooly water still in his bowl. In the highest cabinet she stuffed his squeaky T-bone steak and the last pack of Snausages. Into the toe of her boot went a disc of fur that had floated for weeks like a fuzzy flying saucer.

But she still couldn’t relax. Ever since she was fifteen, she’d leaned on substances in times like this. The memories were enough to lighten her: NyQuil mixed with root beer, a huff of computer keyboard cleaner, cocaine, even if it had that grainy yellow look and was mostly lactose or baking soda. Even now that she was living the domestic life she needed a boost sometimes, though she hid the worst from Beth. A couple glasses of wine usually did the trick, but alcohol was banned in freshman dorms. Fortunately Molly had a sandwich bag of pot for emergencies.

Beth let her smoke in the bathroom, the last room in the railroad suite, with her head out the window at night when no one was on Prospect. This seemed more incriminating than smoking inside and lighting a cranberry-scented candle afterwards, but Beth was more afraid of the little Harvard shits than the campus police or even the real police. Right now, though, it didn’t matter. Molly had killed Beth’s dog. She smoked right in the armchair.

Molly’s own apartment was in Allston. Across the river there were no rules or snotty students, but she had five roommates, bedbugs, and rats. Not mice, but rats. Bulge-backed, two-pound goblins that dragged themselves across the floor without fear of humans. If you yelled or stomped they planted down and stared, as though saying, “You’re sixty times my body weight and that’s the best you can do?” Even so, she preferred her place to this womb of eighteen-year-olds. She was stuck with Beth in this dorm, too domestic. She was afraid of how much she liked just hanging out and having sex, watching TV, reading for the first time in years. Wasn’t she too young to be this boring?