I go to my crate, in the kitchen. It’s not a crate of course, I just call it that. It’s one of those old chest freezers. I like to sleep in it—the dark, the quiet. But sometimes Ted piles stuff on top of it. Weights. Like now.

I put my ear close. The whine is high like a lady singing opera. But I can still hear her voice, underneath it.

“Hello?” she says, tearful, a bare whisper. “Olivia?” The words are faint, she sounds weak and sad, but there is no mistake. I picture her curled up in the dark, in there. I can hear her wet breathing.

“He’s mad that I made a bad dinner,” Lauren says, her voice coming eerie through the air holes. “So mad. The only time I remember him being this angry was after that time at the mall…” She’s doing that slight, involuntary gasping that happens when people are tired out from crying.

My mind won’t work properly, it races like that mouse in the walls. My fur stands up in quills.

Calm down, Olivia, I tell myself. So she got herself locked in the freezer somehow. Careless kid …

“I didn’t lock myself in,” Lauren says.

I leap a little in the air. You can hear me? I ask. You understand cat? Oh my LORD!

“Listen. Ted shut me in…”

What a silly accident, I say, relieved. I bet he’ll feel terrible when he realizes … OK. Easy! I’ll go wake Ted, and he can let you out.

“No, please don’t wake him.” Her voice is like a scream, if a scream could also be a whisper. It’s horrible. It has little bloody flip-flops and scrawls saying help in it. I feel cold marching up my tail, into my spine. Lauren gives a series of hard little gasps like she’s trying to get herself together.

You can’t stay in there forever, Lauren, I say, reasonable. That’s my place. It’s a little selfish of you, actually. Anyway, your mom will come looking for you, or the school … Is it a school you go to? Sorry, I forget.

“No, Olivia,” she whispers. “Think. Please.” I look at the freezer, its size. I look at the air holes Ted pierced in the lid for me. Or were they for me? I feel the answer ebbing through the thick metal door, the rubber seal. The knowledge twists through my organs, flesh and bones.

You don’t go anywhere, when you go away, I say. You stay right here.

“When you can’t get in, that means I’m here,” she says. “We take turns, I guess.”

I think of it: Lauren lying quiet in the dark, listening as Ted and I go about our business. I haven’t seen you for over a month, I say.