The smoke coming from the stove was suddenly black. It stung my eyes. Sam coughed and laughed as he grabbed the skillet and rushed to the window. Rennel fanned the air with the essay to keep the smoke away. Sam held the pan out the window, sucking deeply at the night. The smoke paled against the black sky and moved off slowly. Sam looked back in at us, smiling.

Rennel snorted in disgust. “Any piece of meat that survives that treatment has a right to feel self-confident.”

Sam showed me the pan as he came back into the kitchen: the meat was burned black, welded to the skillet.

“Those don’t look like survivors to me,” I said.

“Don’t fret. This is horse, not a Muzak cow. There’ll be something left under the crust. Do you want to sand the chopsticks?”

I stood at the sink and with rough sandpaper removed the previous night’s rice and horsemeat off the chopsticks. Rennel stood in the doorway watching as Sam chipped the meat out of the pan and into the rice pot. He finished and shooed us out: “Sit on the floor so we can all reach.”

He placed the pot on the floor. We crouched around it, dipped our chopsticks in, and passed a coffee can full of tea.

Rennel took all this in seriously. They sat waving their chopsticks at each other. Philosophy, psychology. Something big with words I didn’t know. Sam was quick to smile and talked fast. Rennel was slow, ponderously performing sensitive pouts before speaking.

Sam shouted, “But you couldn’t condition a dog to commit suicide! The response could only be elicited once! You couldn’t reinforce it.”

“But that’s not the point…”

I couldn’t listen to Rennel’s points.

Downstairs, Clancy was playing the violin. She could earn her keep on a corner, I suppose. The attic reeked of cat shit, burned meat, Sam’s sweat, all the accumulated dust and mold. I spied a pair of Sam’s underwear going green in the corner of the room. Still, the dim pools of light were easy on my eyes. The talk continued. The smoke thickened. I got used to the stench; the dirt began to look familiar, less of a threat. I slept awhile.

I woke to the plunk of guitar. Rennel was asleep in the chair and Sam sat hunched over his guitar next to the record player.

“Hi,” I murmured.

He stopped playing and lit a cigarette. “I met a pickpocket in an elevator this summer who is an authority on folk guitar music. I’ve given up the flamenco. Rennel says it is psychologically healthier.”

We grinned and gossiped.