It’s 7 a.m. and Cassie is awake, peering at the popcorn ceiling she’s

threatened to replace since she first moved into the house. She could

use another hour of sleep, but after counting backwards from 100 to

zero three times in a row, she knows there’ll be no further slumber.

She sleeps in a white “Topsail Island Is for Lovers” t-shirt and satin

gym shorts that barely cover her bottom. She bought the shorts

innocently online after seeing an ad on Facebook, but later blanched

when she was fed other ads referring to them as “booty shorts” and

touting their use for “pole fitness.”

Cassie stands slowly and looks at herself in the mirror above the

dresser. The only sign of strain is under her eyes, where faint gray

shadows have formed over the last week or so. She tries on a

smile—a tentative one at first, then a full beamer. She looks like she

can pass for happy. After she showers the shadows will go away and

she’ll look 10 years younger, seemingly fresh and ready for the day.

Her vitality isn’t something she has cultivated; it just is, inherited

from her mother, who could put on a good face no matter her

physical or emotional health. Cheers, Mom, Cassie whispers to her

reflection in the mirror, toasting her late mother with an imaginary

champagne flute.

She dries off quickly after her shower, brushes her collar-length

hair, and puts on a loose madras shirt and linen pants. She has a big

event later today—what Peter dubbed The Celebration to End All

Celebrations—but she won’t dress up for it until it’s time to leave

the house. It’s unusually warm for mid-April, and the undersized air

conditioner is already struggling to keep up with the rising

temperature.

Cassie calls for Roxie, knowing that she won’t come running the

way she would for Peter. Roxie regards Cassie as a servant; her only

value is that she can do things the toy poodle can’t do for herself.

Cassie thinks Roxie has the disposition of a cat, in that she doesn’t

register that humans are higher up on nature’s food chain. In Roxie’s

version of history, humans gained the upper hand not by

intelligence, social adaptation, or the ability to reason, but by sheer

physicality.

When Cassie opens the cabinet to get her food, Roxie perks up her

ears—the cutest little things, Cassie has to admit—and pads into the

open kitchen. Roxie looks up at Cassie with a blank expression, not

willing to betray any neediness. Cassie pours the food into a bowl,

fills another bowl with fresh water, and says with exaggerated

sweetness, There you go, you ungrateful little vixen.

Cassie walks downstairs to her basement studio, fires up her iMac

Pro, and checks her email. One of the artists working on the gallery

installation for Al Hanson Motors has sent a brief video of his soonto-

be completed work, the front end of a ’64 Mustang rigged to

simulate the car’s sound and feel. Cassie returns encouraging words

and reminds him of the installation date. There’s also an email from

the gallery’s interior designer, Joanna Paige, with an update on the

wall painting, lighting, and mounting of historical artifacts from the

Al Hanson dealerships.

Cassie lifts herself from the rolling chair in front of the pair of 27-

inch flat screens. She was hoping for an email from Jim, but there’s

been nothing in the past week. Cassie resigns herself to plodding

through the day ahead. She’s nowhere close to her usual carpe diem

self, but this fractional version will have to do.