By two in the morning the animal-transport service arrived.

I handed the bewildered driver Austin’s credit-card details — which I had on file from the last time I paid his overdue utility bills — and watched the squawking birds, the trembling rabbit, and the miserable cat loaded into a climate-controlled van.

“They’ll be well taken care of, ma’am,” the driver said, noticing my black mourning clothes.

“I know,” I replied. “They deserve better than the people who own them.”

Once the house was empty of their chaos, I went to work. I scrubbed the dining table until it gleamed and threw the ruined cake into the disposal. I vacuumed the traces of dander.