The next day, I wrote to Jo-Jo.

  Briefly, without details — the way people write when they want to reassure, not burden.

  I told him that I'd stopped by Phil's place, that he looked good — lively, in great spirits. That the house was decorated, that he was laughing, offering treats, talking nonstop. That, by all impressions, he really was doing better.

  And I asked how he himself was doing.

  How Bridget was.

  The reply didn't come immediately, but quickly enough that I didn't have time to start replaying everything in my head again.

  Jo-Jo wrote that, overall, things were okay.

  Bridget was recovering, but her ear was still an issue. The inflammation hadn't fully gone away. The treatments had to continue — doctor visits, monitoring. It was exhausting, but there was progress, and that was the main thing.

  Then he asked:

  "Did you see Alexander?"

  I paused for a second, choosing my words.

  And answered honestly:

  "No. Not in person. He wasn't home. Phil talked about him a lot."

  Jo-Jo replied almost at once.

  He wrote that he was glad to hear that. That it meant things were just as Phil had said. That he himself had spoken with Alexander and had come away with a good impression. Calm. Pleasant. Caring. A little unusual — but in a good way.

  "The important thing," he wrote, "is that Phil isn't alone. And that he has help."

  I agreed.

  We exchanged a few more lines — nothing important, more like confirmation that the anxiety really had passed. That everything had fallen into place.

  I decided to decorate the house too.

  Not all at once, not in a rush — gradually. Over the next few days I took out old boxes of decorations I hadn't opened in a long time. There were garlands that had survived more than one move, glass ornaments I was always afraid to break, and odd things whose purpose I no longer remembered but had never been able to throw away. Then I bought some new ones — simple, warm, without excessive shine.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I went for walks.

  Went to shops.

  Came back with bags and cold hands.

  At the same time, orders for paintings were coming in. A few for discussion. One was bought right away. I handled correspondence, packaging, invoices, paints. The house was slowly filling with light — not only from the garlands, but from the feeling that life was getting back on track.

  It became very beautiful.

  And a little lonely.

  I caught myself thinking:

  maybe I should get a cat?

  Like Jenkins has.

  Like his relatives have.

  I love animals in general, and cats in particular. Always have. Besides, a cat would definitely drive rodents out of the house. A very practical solution. And most importantly — alive.

  "Great idea," I said out loud.

  December was almost fully in charge now.

  It was cold and snowy.

  Sometimes, through the window, only in passing and from behind, I saw Phil and Alexander. They went places together. Left, came back. The car appeared and disappeared. Everything looked... normal. Even cozy.

  One day, the doorbell rang.

  I was in the studio — painting and listening to an audiobook at the same time. The paint was going on well, I was completely immersed in the process, so I didn't hear the bell right away. When it finally registered, I almost ran.

  I opened the door — no one was there.

  There was a box on the doorstep.

  And by the road, already almost getting into her car, I saw Frau Schwarzenegger.

  The car was tiny. Truly microscopic. Like a toy. And Frau Schwarzenegger was enormous. Broad. Solid. She filled the space so completely it seemed the car was about to give up.

  Beside her was another woman — average-sized, who looked almost pocket-sized next to Frau Schwarzenegger.

  I called out to her.

  She turned around, saw me — and immediately climbed back out of the car, as if she'd changed her mind about leaving.

  "Ah!" she said loudly. "Gut, gut! You're home!"

  She walked over, confidently took the box, and placed it in my hands.

  "It's a repeller," she said matter-of-factly. "For the animal. I think it's a marten."

  "A marten after all — are you sure?" I asked.

  "Ja," she nodded. "Very clever. Very cheeky. Aber wir sind schlauer."

  She winked.

  "The instructions are inside," she continued. "You need to read them. Install it. Nothing complicated. All standard."

  I nodded.

  "Money later," she added.

  Then, as if casually, she said:

  "I'll reschedule the cleaning. A few days later. Familienangelegenheiten."

  The tone made it clear there was no point in asking questions.

  "Of course," I said. "No problem."

  "Gut," she said, satisfied. "Thank you for the understanding."

  She turned and walked back to the car. The other woman was already inside, clearly waiting. Somehow, Frau Schwarzenegger fit back in again, slammed the door, and the little car drove off, looking slightly overburdened by life.

  I went back inside.

  I put the box with the repeller in the living room, on the table. I didn't open it. I didn't feel like reading the instructions right now. That would require attention, focus, decisions. And I had the feeling that if I started digging into it, something unpleasant would обязательно come up. Let it sit. It wasn't going anywhere.

  I put on my jacket and went outside to clear some snow.

  It was fresh, light, not yet packed down. The shovel went in softly, without resistance. The work was almost meditative. I saw a few neighbors — some by their gates, some on the paths. We waved to each other, wordlessly. A kind of silent winter etiquette.

  And then I noticed the pole.

  A plastic sign was hanging on it — fresh, clean, clearly put up recently. In large letters it read:

  ATTENTION, NEIGHBORS!

  Below, even larger, in red:

  EMPTY YOUR FOOD WASTE CONTAINERS ON TIME!

  Underlined.

  Bold.

  With several exclamation marks.

  And below that, in smaller but equally alarming red letters:

  RATS HAVE APPEARED IN THE AREA.

  THEY ENTER HOUSES, DAMAGE PROPERTY,

  AND SPREAD DISEASE!!!

  Three exclamation marks.

  As if one wouldn't have been enough.

  I stood there with the shovel in my hands, staring at the notice a bit longer than I should have. Candy wrappers, crumbs, cream on the table surfaced in my mind all on their own. Rustling sounds. Untouched cheese.

  "Wonderful," I muttered.

  The snow around me was white, clean, almost festive. Neighbors were calmly clearing their paths. Someone laughed. Somewhere a shovel clinked.

  And on the pole — in red letters — "disease."

  I finished clearing the path, neatly piled the snow at the edge, and looked at the notice once more.

  "So, rats," I said out loud, shivering. "Just perfect."