“It doesn’t like to be touched.”

Her rabbit hung from her left hand by its worn ear.

I borrowed it and walked it under the chair, nose first, and she made a sound that was almost a laugh before she caught it.

“The rabbit isn’t allowed under there,” she said.

“The rabbit doesn’t take orders.”

She took it back and pressed it against her chest.

Above the sideboard, in the corner near the ceiling, a small dark dome turned its face toward the table.

“Does that watch you eat?”