When she sat on the armchair she felt, for an instant, the smiling muzzle of Chowder in her lap. This was the first time she’d sat here without him burrowing in, as though out of sweetness, and then taking a long drag of her crotch. Beth wasn’t coming back until later tonight, but Molly should call and tell her what had happened. Beth loved Chowder more than she loved Molly, or her family, or herself, crazy as that was.

Molly listened to the ocean on the receiver before dialing out of the Harvard system and onto the sonic wave of tone. Beth was in session, or in the hotel revising. Her presentation was in an hour, and her phone was off. Molly cleared her throat, preparing to leave a message in her ghastliest voice. The news would land smoother when Beth called back expecting dire news.

But then, abruptly, Beth was on the line.

“I have to get dressed in two minutes,” she said, as though they were already midconversation. “Judith Butler is here. I can’t believe no one warned me. I have to raise the barn. I have to.”

Beth bungled aphorisms, which Molly found endearing, considering she was in her fourth year of a Comp Lit PhD. She’d finished her coursework but couldn’t begin her dissertation until she accumulated three first-author publications. She was presenting a paper at a conference called Bodies that Matter.

“Then raise the barn,” Molly said. She normally hated discussing Beth’s stress, which washed over her like second-hand smoke, reminding her of all the careers she wasn’t pursuing, all the progress she wasn’t making. But right now she’d take any topic but Chowder.

“How am I supposed to raise the barn if I’ve been writing this paper for three months and I’ve already raised the goddamn barn a thousand times, like off the farm and practically out of the atmosphere, and now I can’t raise it any higher or everything’s going to topple like some kind of, I don’t know, tower of scarves? Cars? Whatever that’s called?”

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.