“I’m getting wound up. I’m sorry. I’ll calm down. But actually, one more thing. It’s that pig who’s got the mayor’s ear. That galloping hunk of ass-dandruff doesn’t know anything himself, but he’s surrounded by toady manipulators. I feel like we’re losing it. In his memos, Shergar basically suggests we’re all going to be drowned by aquatic sleeper cells. We have to take a stand. I cannot take much more.”

“Umm-hum.”

Alfonzo and Mitchell maneuvered around a family of French bulldogs wrapped in couture scarves. Beside them, a chicken stood nervously, peering uptown, waiting for traffic to clear. When the two friends finally made it to their favorite food cart, they had to wait in a long line to order and then in another to retrieve their orders. All the while, the urban menagerie streamed by.

“You’re awfully quiet. Am I boring you with political commentary?”

“No. It’s just, I went to see Professor Vinograd.”

Mitchell did a little bounce on his toes. “I forgot it was today! I should be treating you to a fancy lunch.”

This reaction made Alfonzo warm. He had a lifelong supporter in Mitchell. It made it worse, though, because he had not just his own disappointment and shame to digest but also the experience of seeing the news hit Mitchell. The sun filtered through the fur overhanging Alfonzo’s eyes, making a little visor. He tried staring into the distance, but the distance was blocked by the colorful display in a Poochi store window. They finally got their falafels.

“Vinograd rejected my work.”

Mitchell scrunched up his brow. “Okay, sure. But seriously, must I now refer to you as doctor all the time, or just when we’re in public?”

“I’m not going to be a doctor.”

“That is insane. Stop lying. Can you get a second opinion?”

“Getting a PhD isn’t a terminal illness.”

“Says you.”

They chewed on in silence. Alfonzo hadn’t asked about options. Why hadn’t he asked? Dr. Vinograd’s words felt final. It wasn’t only the professor who spoke, but the whole of academia. It wasn’t the academy’s fault, though. His failures were his fault. Self-sabotage. Stupidity. An essential misunderstanding. Maybe Dr. Vinograd was right. He didn’t even recognize his own instincts. He didn’t even know if he was a ruminant. An unknown shadow alpaca lurked within the self he thought he knew. Self-saboteur. An aphorism flitted through his head: There is another world and it is inside this one.