Because this is about the hamster.
But not just about the hamster.
Philip swallows.
“You’d really keep him?”
“Yeah.”
He looks at me another second.
Then nods once.
“Okay.”
For a while after that, neither of us says much.
Philip finishes his coffee.
I rinse plates that don’t need rinsing.
He transfers Heath’s food, bedding, and three separate packets of treats into a neat stack beside the cage.
The house has gone strangely careful.
Every sound feels deliberate.
The zip of Philip’s wash bag.
The clink of Heath’s water bottle.
The low murmur of the radio neither of us is listening to.
It shouldn’t feel like a countdown.
And yet it does.
Philip crouches by the cage one last time, murmuring something too low for me to catch to Heath, who responds by refusing to leave the beanie like emotional conversations are beneath him.
I check the time.
Then check it again five seconds later as if the numbers might improve.
They don’t.
Philip straightens.
“Well,” he says softly.
Worst word in the English language.
“Yeah.”
He picks up his bag but doesn’t move towards the door yet.
Neither do I.
Sunlight cuts across the hallway floorboards.
