Bob

“This is Bob.”

Your nephew Alfie sprays spittle on the taxidermied rat he offers you. You take it gingerly.

“Listen, buddy, I gotta go—”

“Careful!”

Bob’s tail is in one of your hands, his body in the other. Your shoulders tense.

“Sorry. I—” You stand, knocking over a stack of cardboard boxes. Freeze-dried birds and dead bugs and bones cascade across the carpet.

“No!” Alfie’s eyes panic. He starts refilling the boxes.

Taking your chance, you back towards the door.

Alfie grabs your ankle. Your breath catches.

“Be careful!” he shouts.

You look down. You’re standing on a hummingbird.

Alfie's eyes burning with hatred.

"Look what you've done!”