She was so scared of her sudden switch in emotions right then that she kept smiling,
as if the smile could keep her in the world she had just been in,
the one where Volts was alive and where this man she’d sold guitar songbooks to had rung her doorbell for another reason.
Ash, she remembered, was a surgeon. Not a veterinary one, a general human one.
If he said something was dead it was, in all probability, dead.
“I’m so sorry.” Nora had a familiar sense of grief. Only the sertraline stopped her crying. “Oh God.”
She stepped out onto the wet cracked paving slabs of Bancroft Avenue, hardly breathing,
and saw the poor ginger-furred creature lying on the rain-glossed tarmac beside the kerb.
His head grazed the side of the pavement and his legs were back as if in mid-gallop, chasing some imaginary bird. “Oh Volts. Oh no. Oh God.”
She knew she should be experiencing pity and despair for her feline friend – and she was – but she had to acknowledge something else.
As she stared at Voltaire’s still and peaceful expression – that total absence of pain –
there was an inescapable feeling brewing in the darkness: Envy.
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