The closet is a treasure trove of brightly colored clothes. Rose chooses a knee-length white tunic with a Nehru collar and a pair of loose trousers gathered at the ankles. More strands of what she laughingly calls her “self” are restored.

Downstairs, she finds the refrigerator empty, clean, unplugged with the door ajar. She had not been expected back anytime soon. Several cans of pork and beans, an emergency staple, remain on a shelf. Standing over the sink, Rose opens a can and eats the beans cold. Can rinsed and set aside for recycling, Rose opens the dishwasher to dispose of the spoon. It has been loaded and run, but not emptied. Three plates, four coffee cups, assorted flatware, a spatula, and two prescription pill bottles that originally contained Venlafaxine, an antidepressant Rose has been on for twenty-plus years.

The food gives her the strength to climb back up the stairs. The thin wires that have kept her skinny flu-and-drug-ravaged puppet body upright and moving snap. Bones collapse against one another.

Falling back on the California-king-sized bed, arms flung wide, she stares at the ceiling fan, white and unmoving. Memories of this house without Harley trickle into her mind: Boxes she was too tired to unpack. Food she was too uninterested to cook. Thoughts she was too miserable to think. Grief sets those memories in black-and-white. Ubiquitous roaring leaf blowers make up the soundtrack. The life-form that was Harley has dissolved back into … whatever life is when it’s not incarnate. The Harley/Rose life-form now only has one heart, one skeleton.

The house, even with her in it, is empty of life. Rose craves the sensation of being alive. She rolls to her side. A small dark object sits in the center of one of the pillows. A mouse. Rose sits up. The mouse is gray with big ears and black bead eyes. It’s made of rabbit fur with plastic whiskers.

Rose has cats.

She has been gone a long time. If they’ve gotten out, they’ve run away. They are indoor cats, unused to the urban wild. Honey Cat and Laura Lei have been taken to the pound, rehomed, or killed. A sob bursts from Rose’s throat. The grief she cannot access for her husband pours out for their cats. Rose wails and gulps. Tears and snot mingle. Her mouth is an open square of pain.

“It’s different, Harley!” she gasps at the bedcover. “You were doing exactly what you wanted, exactly where you wanted to do it. Our kitties were captured and caged, scared to death, dumped in a kennel to wait on a cold metal table for the syringe!”