dig

There's a man selling rats on the street. He has four of them lined up on his arm, and he shoves his wrist toward anyone who'll look at him. When he does, the rats cling to his shirt-sleeve and jerk from side to side, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I'll sell one for three dollars," he says, "they're in perfect health. Good teeth, see?"

Chris walks over to him, feeling the money in his pocket with his fingers. "This one," the man says, "his name's Albert. And this one's Granpa, and this one is Jaquenetta."

There's a fawn hooded, hiding between the man's sweatshirt collar and his shoulder. It's blinking slowly and licking its paws, and it looks a little stoned. Chris has a headache, his knuckles hurt and he feels stoned, too. He says, "What's that one's name?"

The man takes it down, and turns it over so its tail waves in circles in the air. "This little lovely doesn't have a name. You can name her, if you like."

Chris takes the rat and holds her up to his face. "Cello," he says, trying names. "Mace, Fio, Laura." The rat doesn't move. "Child," he says. She licks his fingers.

"I take better care of them than I take care of myself," the man says. "Every morning, every morning I take them into the bus station, wash them in the sink. They're cleaner than me, healthier, I treat them well."

Chris touches her forehead with his index finger and pushes down. She slides with it, until he's petting her. He says, "I don't have any room for her."

"Just put them in your pocket. Here, see?" The man takes the biggest rat, light gray with a brown-spotted tail, and places it gently in his sweatshirt pocket. "He'll stay there, too. They're well-behaved, I take good care of them."

Chris holds his arm out, and tries tucking the rat in his sleeve. She claws at his arm, clinging to it, and curls into a ball, eyes closed. "She costs three dollars?"

"Yeah, but that one's special. You like her, I'll give you her for two."

The money doesn't weigh anything. He hands the man two dollars, and it feels like giving him air.