The cat ate my pet mouse when I was 13. I felt her presence like a purr in my chest, rumbling and soothing. I should have been angry about the mouse but I wanted to curl up with her, comfortable and close. She hissed when I reached out, knowing the struggle to come when we touched, knowing that one of us would be consumed by it. She didn’t pull away: there was contact and she disappeared. She curls on my thigh now, a black shape on my skin, and I slumber soundly in the warmth of the hearth.