you did.”
“So what if it happens that way in nature?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like the dinosaurs. Or woolly mammoths, or cavemen. They were here once; we know that because we keep finding their bones. But now they’re gone, and we can only see them in museums.” He paused. “God made all life about six thousand years ago, right?”
“Yes.”
“But some of it isn’t here anymore.” Paul looked at his mice. “What if it’s like that with God? It wouldn’t have to be on purpose, just a few percentiles of difference, the slightest perturbation from random, this big hand reaching down, picking which ones stay and which ones go.”
Paul put the lid back on the aquarium. “Some kinds die out along the way.”
5
It happened on a weekend. Bertha was pregnant, obscenely, monstrously. Her distended abdomen spread around her as she squatted on her haunches and nibbled at a piece of lettuce.
Bertha sat alone in the smallest aquarium, an island unto herself isolated on a table in the middle of the room. A little tissue box sat in the corner of her glass enclosure, and Bertha had shredded bits of paper into a comfortable nest in which to give birth to the next generation of goliath mice.
Paul dropped another piece of lettuce into the cage and smiled.
Whiskers twitching, Bertha lumbered forward across the cedar chips and sniffed the new arrival.
Then Paul heard it: the sudden hum of the garage door. He froze.
His father was home early.
When the garage door finally stopped, Paul heard his father’s car ease into the open parking bay below. The brakes squeaked as the car pulled to a stop, and then his father cut the engine. Paul considered turning off the attic light but knew it would only draw suspicion. Instead he waited, hoping.
The garage was strangely quiet, the only sound the ticking of the car’s engine down below. Paul listened, waiting for the tread of his father’s footsteps heading into the house. The sound didn’t come.
Paul’s stomach dropped when he heard the creak of his father’s weight on the ladder.
There was a moment of panic then—a single hunted moment when Paul’s eyes darted for a place to hide the cages. It was ridiculous; there was no place to go.
The creaking ladder grew louder as Paul’s father ascended.
“What’s that smell?” his father asked as his head cleared the attic floor. He stopped and looked around, a pale disembodied head jutting from the floorboards. “Oh.”
And that was all he said at first.
That was all he said as he climbed the rest of the way. He rose to his height and stood like a giant, taking it in. The single bare bulb draped his eyes in shadow. The muscle in his jaw clenched and loosened. “What is this?” he said finally. His dead voice turned Paul’s stomach to ice.
“What is this?” Louder now, and something changed in his shadow eyes. Paul’s father stomped toward him, above him.
“Are you going to answer me? What is this!” The words more shriek than question, spit flying from his mouth.
“I, I thought—”
A big hand shot out and slammed into Paul’s chest, balling his T-shirt into a fist, yanking him off his feet.
“What the fuck is this? Didn’t I tell you no pets?” The bright light of the family, the famous man.
“They’re not pets, they’re—”
“God, it fucking stinks up here. You brought these things into the house?”
“I’m sorry, Dad, I—”
“You brought this vermin into the house? Into my house!”
“It’s a projec—”
The arm flexed, sending Paul backward into the big cages, toppling one of the tables—a flash of pain, wood and mesh crashing to the floor, the squeak of mice and twisted hinges, months and months and months of work.
His father kicked at the wood, splintering the frame, crushing the cage in on itself, stomping it to twisted wreckage. “You brought these things into my house !”
Paul scrambled away, just out of reach.
His father followed, arm raised, and the
“So what if it happens that way in nature?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like the dinosaurs. Or woolly mammoths, or cavemen. They were here once; we know that because we keep finding their bones. But now they’re gone, and we can only see them in museums.” He paused. “God made all life about six thousand years ago, right?”
“Yes.”
“But some of it isn’t here anymore.” Paul looked at his mice. “What if it’s like that with God? It wouldn’t have to be on purpose, just a few percentiles of difference, the slightest perturbation from random, this big hand reaching down, picking which ones stay and which ones go.”
Paul put the lid back on the aquarium. “Some kinds die out along the way.”
5
It happened on a weekend. Bertha was pregnant, obscenely, monstrously. Her distended abdomen spread around her as she squatted on her haunches and nibbled at a piece of lettuce.
Bertha sat alone in the smallest aquarium, an island unto herself isolated on a table in the middle of the room. A little tissue box sat in the corner of her glass enclosure, and Bertha had shredded bits of paper into a comfortable nest in which to give birth to the next generation of goliath mice.
Paul dropped another piece of lettuce into the cage and smiled.
Whiskers twitching, Bertha lumbered forward across the cedar chips and sniffed the new arrival.
Then Paul heard it: the sudden hum of the garage door. He froze.
His father was home early.
When the garage door finally stopped, Paul heard his father’s car ease into the open parking bay below. The brakes squeaked as the car pulled to a stop, and then his father cut the engine. Paul considered turning off the attic light but knew it would only draw suspicion. Instead he waited, hoping.
The garage was strangely quiet, the only sound the ticking of the car’s engine down below. Paul listened, waiting for the tread of his father’s footsteps heading into the house. The sound didn’t come.
Paul’s stomach dropped when he heard the creak of his father’s weight on the ladder.
There was a moment of panic then—a single hunted moment when Paul’s eyes darted for a place to hide the cages. It was ridiculous; there was no place to go.
The creaking ladder grew louder as Paul’s father ascended.
“What’s that smell?” his father asked as his head cleared the attic floor. He stopped and looked around, a pale disembodied head jutting from the floorboards. “Oh.”
And that was all he said at first.
That was all he said as he climbed the rest of the way. He rose to his height and stood like a giant, taking it in. The single bare bulb draped his eyes in shadow. The muscle in his jaw clenched and loosened. “What is this?” he said finally. His dead voice turned Paul’s stomach to ice.
“What is this?” Louder now, and something changed in his shadow eyes. Paul’s father stomped toward him, above him.
“Are you going to answer me? What is this!” The words more shriek than question, spit flying from his mouth.
“I, I thought—”
A big hand shot out and slammed into Paul’s chest, balling his T-shirt into a fist, yanking him off his feet.
“What the fuck is this? Didn’t I tell you no pets?” The bright light of the family, the famous man.
“They’re not pets, they’re—”
“God, it fucking stinks up here. You brought these things into the house?”
“I’m sorry, Dad, I—”
“You brought this vermin into the house? Into my house!”
“It’s a projec—”
The arm flexed, sending Paul backward into the big cages, toppling one of the tables—a flash of pain, wood and mesh crashing to the floor, the squeak of mice and twisted hinges, months and months and months of work.
His father kicked at the wood, splintering the frame, crushing the cage in on itself, stomping it to twisted wreckage. “You brought these things into my house !”
Paul scrambled away, just out of reach.
His father followed, arm raised, and the
Similar Books
The Veil
Stuart Meczes
Liability
C.A Rose
Summer Lightning
Cynthia Bailey Pratt
Boy Nobody
Allen Zadoff
The Father Hunt
Rex Stout
Crimson Moon
J. A. Saare
city of dragons 03 - fire magic
val st crowe
Clean Lines (Cedar Tree #4)
Freya Barker
The Payback
Simon Kernick