“Right.” John looked down at his shoes. “It’s just been a rough”—he began, but the door closed with a firm thunk—“year.”

John considered the door for a minute, then headed to the ground-floor apartment at the front of the complex, now his for another month. It was a single-bedroom unit with a full bath and half a kitchen. He kept the blinds up while he was away, to show that he had nothing: the area was prone to burglaries, and it seemed like a safe bet to telegraph the fact that there was nothing to steal here.

Once inside, John locked the door behind him and carefully slid the chain into place. His apartment was cool and dark, and quiet. He sighed and rubbed his temples; the headache was still there, but he was growing accustomed to that.

The place was sparsely furnished—it had come that way—and the only personal touch he had added to the living room was to stack four cardboard boxes full of books against the wall below the window. He glanced at them with a disappointed familiarity. He went to the bedroom and sat down on his bed, the springs creaking stiffly beneath him. He didn’t bother turning on the light; there was enough daylight still leaking through the small dingy window above his bed.

John looked toward his dresser, where a familiar face looked back at him: a toy rabbit’s head, its body nowhere to be found.

“What did you do today?” John said, meeting the plush rabbit’s eyes as if it might show a spark of recognition. Theodore just stared back blankly, his eyes dark and lifeless. “You look terrible; worse than me.” John stood and approached the rabbit’s head; he couldn’t ignore the smell of mothballs and dirty fabric. John’s smile faded, and he grabbed the head by the ears and held it in the air. Time to throw you away. He considered it almost every day. He clenched his jaw, then set it back on the dresser carefully and turned away, not wanting to look at it further.

*  *  *