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That was Amy Grossman, the vet. She was the mother of a kid in college, her chin-length hair brown with a tasteful touch of red. Once a month Sharon went into her clinic to do the bookkeeping. Amy glanced across the living room to Ingrid, her partner, who was staring out the window. They lived in the other side of Heather’s semi-detached, which they rented from her parents. “We’ve been talking about Heather. You just never know, do you?”
    The homeschooling mom, whose name was Sofia Rosales-Oyibo, and Laura Anderson, the psychologist, turned toward Sharon, expectantly. There were things people said when they came together in groups, right things and wrong things, and they knew by instinct which was which, but she’dbeen born without that instinct and could only stand half-frozen, caught in her awkwardness.
    “I guess not,” Sharon said finally. And from inside came a barrage of invective:
moron, idiot, useless piece of trash
.
    Perfume was wafting from the couch, either Laura or Sofia doused in something flowery and old-fashioned and suffocatingly sweet. From inside voices were hissing,
You can’t get anything right, you’ll never amount to anything
. Sharon could see it was true. Hadn’t she once tried to fix Amy up with a man, too stupid to know that Amy liked girls? And there were worse mistakes, darker ones, hidden ones.
    “It’s amazing that the baby survived.” Sofia was reaching for the chips.
    “Don’t you think it’s …” Sharon crossed her arms, trying to stay present. “I mean cutting out …”
    “Don’t get so grossed out. The baby lived.” Amy dipped her chips in salsa. “The truth is that we’re all animals.”
    Meat, just meat. Like the lamb or Miss Piggy or the child of your heart lying blasted on a bed. She couldn’t hold on anymore. The room wavered and she was falling inside, someone catching her as someone else moved into her place, switching quickly. Eyes momentarily on the floor, then sideways, making note of all the exits, she looked up, not precisely a she, though that is what the neighbours still saw: a mom like themselves, red haired and skinny, cheeks red with an embarrassment that was starting to fade, walking loose-limbed toward the kitchen.
    One minute you were inside, keeping things under control, and then all of a sudden you shot out. Boom. Likethat. Crashing through the eyes. So you just had to deal, even though you might be thinking, what the hell am I doing here, I’m not a mom, I’m not even a girl. You’d answer to “Sharon,” put up with the boobs, and piss sitting down as long as you had to be out in the body. He—for Alec was a guy whatever the body was—looked over at the table set with a stack of plates, cream cheese, smoked salmon, guacamole, brie, bagels. His sister-in-law always put on a good spread. At least he’d have something to eat. He was hungrier than the others inside, and taller, and the body had to stretch to accommodate him. On nights when the girls called from their bunk beds, scared of monsters, he’d fold himself in one of their little chairs, keeping guard until they’d fallen asleep again.
    Eleanor was in the kitchen, reaching inside the oven. “You were right. I don’t know how the corkscrew got in there. Do you want a glass of wine?”
    “Beer. If you got any.” His head hurt from switching hard and fast.
    Opening the fridge door, Eleanor took out a bottle. “I want you to do something for me. Go and talk to Ingrid. She heard the shot.”
    “No shit.”
    “They’ve only been there a few months.” Eleanor had told Ingrid when the house was available for rent. It was perfect, close enough to the university and just a couple of blocks from Amy’s clinic. That was what Eleanor did. She collected people and then she matched them up: you marry her; you work with him; you move into that house. “Now this.”
    “Got it.” And he did.
    “Wait. There’s more. It was her gun.” Eleanor looked up, daring her