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Bradley wasn’t a particular fan of cats, being more of a dog person, but he thought it might be nice to make a friend in the neighbourhood and not another enemy.

“I have just the idea. Wait right there, okay, kitty?” He pointed an index finger at the feline. “Sit. Stay. Do not move from this spot. I’ll be right back.”

Once inside, he turned on the five-foot-tall singing nutcracker he’d purchased cheap at the hardware store because its base was severely cracked. The animatronic decoration raised its sceptre like a microphone and began filling the room with its lively song. Bradley wasn’t one for silence.

Next, he searched his fridge, poking around the vast array of housewarming dishes his sisters and mother and friends from the store had given him, until he found the right ingredients. A few plain chicken thighs, some hardboiled eggs, a handful of spinach.

As he blended the mixture, he felt his forehead dampen. It frustrated him how the years of drinking—or perhaps the drugs that often accompanied a mind too messed up to care—had irreparably changed his internal thermostat. He’d had a nice conversation with Eunji the other day, swapping stories of her hot flashes and his protracted withdrawal symptoms as if they were two sweaty warriors facing down the unwelcome changes in their bodies, comrades in arms. He slid the kitchen window open a touch to let in some crisp winter air.

Once the homemade cat food was complete, he sprinkled some cilantro on top for aesthetic flare. Turning around, he tossed a hand to his chest at the sight of the cat, who had apparently not followed his command to stay—which he might have anticipated if he were a cat person and not a dog person—and instead had situated itself on the ledge of his back bay window, nose pressed against the windowpane, where it watched him with beady eyes.

Bradley raised the bowl. “See. Nothing to be angry about. One meal for another. I always try to be fair.”

With a slight hesitation, he opened the back door, half expecting the cat to jump at him, claws out. It only turned its head with eerie slowness.

Bradley set the dish on the step. He pointed at the mixture, mimed some nibbling, rubbed his belly. “Mmm. Good.”

The cat didn’t move.

He flapped a hand at the meal. “For you. Go ahead. Nibble, nibble. Yum, yum.”

After a few more futile attempts to coax the cat into doing his bidding, including pretending to eat a scoop of the mixture himself, he gave up. “All right, well, I’ll leave it out for a little while longer in case you change your mind.”

Bradley reluctantly closed the door behind him.

When he returned, not half an hour later, the bowl was empty.

DEVRA

On Tuesday morning, Devra tried to focus on work. Her mind was fuzzy from another sleepless night. The countless multicoloured strings next door had been left on all night, again, penetrating her room through the cracks in her blinds like an ugly neon sign might penetrate a shady motel room. Was it possible the curse was amplifying their brightness to better torture her? Either way, her anxiety was banging around her skull.

The lights brought up the memory of a pre-LED Christmas tree bulb growing too hot and sparking up dry needles, the smell of smoke, of partially melted plastic ponies and burned synthetic hair. Everyone made it out of the house, and the fire was put out shortly after, but her fear remained. Along with her six-year-old level of devastation at having her most wished-for Christmas present macabrely ruined.

“Squally, play something calming, would you?”

“Now playing calming bird songs on Spotify.”

The room erupted with squawks and tweets.

“Squally, cancel request!”

“Cancelling.” The cloud’s face did a 360-degree roll. “You sound stressed, Devra. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you like to play a game?”

“Not now, Squally.”

“Okay!” The VA settled into its resting smiley face.

Devra ran a hand through her messy, unbrushed hair. She needed to focus. It was one thing to slack off on the weekend, even if it was a rare occurrence; it was another thing entirely during the workweek.

She knew the rest of the development team talked about her behind her back. At the beginning of the Squally Project, there’d been more mandatory in-person meetings. Her colleagues would titter whenever she showed up flushed and out of breath as though she’d run the whole way. Or share looks when she refused to sit with her back to the door but still flinched every time the equipment cart bumped through the hallway. “The girl afraid of her own shadow,” they called her. But her boss and coworkers were willing to overlook her eccentricities, her unusually fervent work-from-home demands, because she was good at what she did. Because she innovated and produced and improved process non-stop. Maintaining that level of productivity wasn’t even work. Overtime was just more fun to be had on weekends. Weekdays were just the continuation of Sunday’s excellent progress. Today, however, writing a single line of coherent code felt impossible.

Gulping her coffee, she brought her eyes closer to the monitor. She needed to focus. She needed to debug the newest modifications to Squally’s algorithms. She needed to send out the weekly progress email. She needed to—feed Tabs!

Her office chair rolled backward as she leaped to her feet. She hadn’t refilled Tabs’ bowl in almost twenty-four hours. The poor thing. Tabs was probably starving. She was probably livid and plotting her revenge. She was probably—