“What else were we going to do but struggle?” Pamella replied. “It’s a choice between hope and hopelessness. We aren’t against the mayor because we support his opponents. We don’t want tea as a solution to coffee, or pig proposals to solve horse problems. If a seal were to somehow become the mayor according to the rules as they are now, that wouldn’t be victory. The struggle has always been life and death, I suppose, but it feels different now, in that we—you and I and everyone we care for—we won’t have a home that’s not underwater, we won’t have un-poisoned food or air if we don’t struggle. Some say the rich will feel the rising seas, too, but you can be sure they’ll be the last to get wet, by which time it will be too late for the rest of us. We can’t keep running in their hamster wheel.”

The bell above the door tinkled.

A llama walked into the café, and it was Mitchell. He wore sunglasses despite the lack of sun and a gray scarf wrapped all the way up to meet the bucket hat that covered his ears. This was his disguise for the City Hall goons who didn’t seem to be looking for him. He was a beautiful, absurd creature. The three were happy to be reunited. Alfonzo sniffed away his sadness as Pamella embraced Mitchell’s long neck. Their friendship was so fragile and necessary.

Mitchell said they should take a walk to be out in the weather.

Pamella wrote a note, BACK SOON!, and taped it to the door. They left the music playing and the lights on and ambled out onto the street.

The clouds above were black and blue and gray all over, low as they arrived from the north. Most of all, the clouds were wet. The snow they’d been producing had turned to something else, a shifting foggy rain. The snow had become an explosion of particles too insubstantial to bother with gravity.

The city followed the weather’s lead. Greasy steam burst from exhaust vents. Workers puffed on break-time cigarettes. Their smoke rushed upward to join its god, the clouds. Tires sliced puddles, and the sprays hit pedestrians who were wielding umbrellas as shields. The mist caught in fur and feathers and soaked them through. Animals leapt to stay dry-footed, but it was futile. Water streamed down the glass-and-steel cliffs and through the concrete valleys. Frigid pools formed around storm drains. Alfonzo dodged custodians sweeping water toward the street with long squeegees. Particles flew into his eyes. He blinked and sputtered.

Mitchell strolled along with Pamella on his back, cool and collected, as if they were stars in some broken version of Singin’ in the Rain.