There had been repeated pushes to modernize the Hole. They faltered, came to nothing. Projects went there to die. A few seasons back, someone had started building a condo in the area. Luis said, “Finally,” to his friends. But then, amid whispers of shell companies, tax write-offs, and maybe mafia involvement, the builders stopped showing up, and all that was left was a half-built steel husk at the end of Ruby Street. One day Luis made Alfonzo walk over there. His father glowered at the geometry of the steel beams wrapped in decaying blue tarps that flapped like torn sails in the wind. Metaphysically, the Hole was more proof for Luis’s belief that goodness and order were contingent and fragile. Luis would only ever tell stories that supported such a view. Bad luck prowled the Hole.

“Mrs. Gustavito,” Luis explained, speaking of his very old hippo neighbor with a skin disorder who’d terrified Alfonzo as a child, “was strolling in the Hole last week, minding her own business. Then, bam, she was hit by a flying board from that junk heap.”

Hippo struck with airborne junk. Alfonzo kept his face straight for his father’s sake. “Oh my gosh.”

“And then—she didn’t want to go to the hospital because she doesn’t have insurance. Our other neighbor, that possum nurse, gave her stitches off the books.”

“Will she survive?” Alfonzo was sure she would, but he didn’t want to deny his father the pleasure of his histrionics.

“This is what happens when you leave politics to non-ruminants,” Luis grumbled. He could always find a way to steer any conversation toward digestion. “I know you’re tired of me bringing this up, but it bears repeating,” he said, chewing with emphasis.

“It’s not horses I’m against, mind you, just speed. Always want to do everything quick. They give out building permits willy-nilly and then, bam, Mrs. Gustavito is brought down by insulation.”

“I don’t think the mayor gives out building permits.”

“It’s just … I think the city could do a whole lot worse than having a cow, a llama, or maybe even an alpaca as mayor.”

“Maybe one day Mitchell will run. I’ll be his campaign manager.”

His father snorted. “Mitch wouldn’t be half bad. You, though, may not be cut out for that level of intensity.”

Alfonzo sipped his coffee. The waitress Dolly brought him his bowl of alfalfa meal. It was warm and pleasantly mushy. He made sure to chew slowly. There is no right time, Alfonzo thought.

“I’ve got some bad news to share. My dissertation was rejected.”

Luis put down his paper. His fur looked thin and gray. The bell on the diner door clinked as some ox firefighters came in. It was difficult, but verbalizing his disappointment to his father was also a relief.

“Dr. Vinograd thought it was too long. He was right. Maybe there is such thing as too much thinking.”