“No, ma’am,” Veronica said. “I do not approve of this situation.”

“Is this a pet?”

“Well, you can’t expect people who think they’re special to have a dog or a cat, now can you? This pig is half their personality.”

Greta looked around at, presumably, the other half. The art all over the house seemed under distinct threat from the pig before her.

“Weird,” Greta pronounced. Veronica nodded definitively.

“She’s sweet,” said Helen, giving the pig another pat.

“As someone with a non-cat, non-dog pet,” said Carys, “I beg you not to judge.”

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Greta said, having forgotten Teacup for a moment. “Teacup doesn’t seem like half your personality at all,” she quickly added.

Carys winked at her. “I’m not offended. They got the pig for their daughter, actually. She loves him. His name’s Scribble.”

“Uh, hi, Scribble,” Greta said and reached out a hand.

The pig was solid and bristly, and Greta took her hand back.

Carys and Helen both seemed to glow with affection for it. Greta caught Veronica’s eye over the pig’s back and was gratified to find her wearing an expression of eye-rolling displeasure that matched her own feelings.

Having received his pats, Scribble waddled past them and collapsed inelegantly onto a pile of cushions in a corner of the room.

“Aw,” said Carys.

Greta was filled with a warm glow. “You love all animals, don’t you?”

Carys grinned.

“They’re all so cute, and they’re just totally themselves. Scribble just spends all his time being a pig. He’s not trying to do anything else. It’s aspirational.”

“You don’t even know,” Veronica chimed in. “This girl thinks squirrels are cute.” She shook her head like she’d delivered a terminal diagnosis.

“They’re adorable,” Carys said. “They’re just like…kittens, but with jobs.”

Veronica snorted, Helen smiled knowingly, and Greta couldn’t see anything but the sincere warmth in Carys’ face.

“You’re a smush,” Greta said.

“Total smush,” Helen agreed.

Carys rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said, mock annoyed, but she leaned into Greta’s shoulder, and Greta slid an arm around her waist.

Veronica headed into the kitchen, and they followed. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen didn’t seem to have been renovated. It was a galley, small and cramped. There were decorative jars of olives and peppers on the stovetop.

“You don’t need a functional stove when you only eat takeout sushi,” Veronica explained under her breath.

On the countertop beside the stove, snacks were laid out. Hummus and pita, grapes, cheese and crackers, cookies, alcohol, and cans of LaCroix in several flavors. Veronica slid her pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator.

“Oh, good, there you are. Thanks for coming.”