28

28

I ris sleeps in the crib, where Flora has climbed in beside her. The light in the room has shifted, from either the passage of time or a change in the weather. From Flora's cramped fetal position on the mattress, she twists to look out the window but can only see the sky and treetops. It appears the snowfall has stopped.

Flora watches Iris's chest rise and fall, her tiny lips forming a yummy pout. The baby's breath skips, and Flora instinctively holds her own breath, listening for Iris's exhale. When she finally hears it, she, too, can breathe again. Moving slowly and carefully so as to not rock the mattress, Flora works her way to a seated position. She leans her back against the slats of the crib and stretches her neck.

Jodi is probably somewhere downstairs, moving freely about the house while Flora is holed up in the nursery like a prisoner. She wants to force her mother out. If the roads were drivable, if her mom had a car, if Flora could charge her phone… but Flora will just have to stay here with Iris, in this crib, until Connor gets home. One eye always watching to ensure the door stays locked. She read once that ducks sleep in groups, taking turns so that at any given time, at least one duck has an eye open to look out for predators. She's not sure if it's true, but she likes the idea.

And anyway, she's gone this long without sleep, what's another day or two or three?

"I'm scared," Zephie says, huddled in the opposite corner of the crib. She pulls her knees close to her chest. "Is she going to take Iris?"

"Connor will fix everything," Flora says. "He'll be home soon. We just have to wait here."

Zephie bites her lip and pulls self-consciously at her delicate yellow dress. She shakes her head and asserts, "I told you inviting her was a bad idea."

"Okay, you were right. Is that what you want to hear?"

"We need to do something," Zephie says.

Flora takes a deep breath. Her bones are tired. "There's nothing to do, Zephie."

"You have to listen to me this time! We can't just sit here!"

This moment tugs at Flora's memory. Zephie's insistence, her fingers fiddling with the hem of the yellow dress. Flora tries to place it, this feeling of déjà vu, and then it slams into her with an unforgiving force.

Moose. This is exactly what happened with Moose.

When Flora was six, she went to a classmate's birthday party where the coveted last gift was a brand-new puppy. The dad brought out the small brown dog with a large blue bow around its neck. His tail wagged incessantly as he traveled from kid to kid, licking their faces and making them squeal in delight. After that, Flora begged her parents for a dog.

She'd find ways of sneaking it into conversation. She'd draw dogs and stick them on the fridge with dog-shaped magnets. She even pretended to be a dog when her mom came to get her out of bed one morning.

"Wake-up time, Flora," her mother said as she parted the curtains.

"I'm not Flora," she panted, "I'm a chocolate Lab!" Flora sat up on her hind legs and held her arms out like limp paws. "Woof! Woof!"

"Okay, well, that makes breakfast easy, then," her mother said. "You can pick scraps from the trash can."

Flora frowned. The game was suddenly a lot less fun.

As human Flora shoveled blueberry waffles into her mouth, her dad explained how much work it was to have a dog. Her parents loved to run through all the reasons they couldn't grant her one-and-only wish in life.

But then, shockingly, her mother arrived at school early one day to pick her up. She drove Flora to the nearby animal shelter and introduced her to their new dog, Moose. Flora didn't know what inspired this change of heart in her parents, but she didn't dare question it.

Moose was a one-year-old shepherd mix who had been surrendered to the shelter a few weeks before. His mouth was perpetually covered in slobber, and he leaned his whole body weight against anyone who pet him. Flora was in love.

She spent every spare minute with him. Cuddling with him on the floor, rubbing his belly, preparing his food with care. She even built forts in the living room that were big enough for the two of them.

But soon, Zephie started to complain. She pointed out that Jodi, too, was in love with Moose—so much so that Flora had to compete for her mother's attention. Flora hadn't particularly noticed this, but the more Zephie talked about it, the more Flora saw it for herself.

"It's like we're invisible when Moose is around," Zephie said.

And it was true. The dog had instantly bonded with Jodi, who didn't even care about dogs before Moose came along. He would follow Jodi everywhere, even to the bathroom, and he wiggled his way into her bed every night. He cried when Jodi left the house, whimpering and lying by the front door until she returned. And he even had a secret stash of her dirty socks hidden beneath his bed so that her smell lingered there at all times.

The obsession grew to be reciprocal. One night, they were running late getting home, so Jodi told Flora she was going to feed Moose as soon as they walked in the door.

"But I'm starving, " Flora said at Zephie's suggestion.

Truth was, Flora had eaten a late snack that day and wasn't hungry at all. But this was a test. And Jodi failed it. She made a beeline for the dog the second they got home and delayed Flora's dinner until he was fed and satisfied.

"See?" Zephie whispered. "She loves him more."

Her mother brushed Moose every night before bed, at the same time she used to brush Flora's hair. When Flora pouted, Jodi scoffed. "You hate it when I brush your hair!"

Flora couldn't argue with that, since she did often complain when Jodi ran the bristles through her knots. But this was different.

Her mother added, "You're old enough to do it yourself now, anyway."

Zephie shot Flora a look like told you so.

Jodi had a particularly busy time at work about eight months after getting Moose. She was helping part-time at a nearby university with fundraising, and it was their big event of the year. This meant she was away from the house most nights for a few weeks. And Moose was not happy.

He started taking his frustration out on Jodi's items: pantyhose, underwear, silk pajama pants. One night, when Jodi arrived home late from work, she turned on the light to reveal a living room full of Moose's damage. He had completely destroyed two television remotes; pieces of plastic were sprinkled all over the floor and couch. Jodi frowned.

"Moosie boy, what have you done?"

Flora was hiding nearby, watching the interaction from around the corner when she should have been in bed. She swallowed a giggle when she heard her mother curse under her breath as she collected pieces of the destroyed gadgets.

"You gotta stop this, little man," Jodi continued cooing to the dog. "Please tell me you didn't eat any of this. That would cost a fortune in stomach surgery." She looked down at Moose, who wagged his tail in happy oblivion. "If you keep this up, you won't be able to live here anymore. You gotta learn to be a good boy." Her words were harsh but her voice was light and soft.

Jodi abandoned her cleaning task and crawled onto the floor with Moose. She lay down and let him lick her face, laughing like a child. From their hiding spot, Flora and Zephie frowned. Flora wondered when, if ever, her mother had shown her that much affection.

From that moment forward, she hated Moose.

"We never should have gotten a dog," she told Zephie that night in bed.

"We need to do something," Zephie agreed.

"Like what?" Flora asked, defeated. "We can't do anything."

"Why not? This is our chance," Zephie said. When Flora bit her lip and scrunched her eyebrows together, Zephie added, "You said yourself you hate him!"

Zephie had a myriad of plans: letting him escape out of the open gate, blending a bunch of grapes into his food (her mother told her grapes are poisonous to dogs), throwing his ball into the street as soon as a car whipped around the corner onto their cul-de-sac. But none of these ideas sat well with Flora. The truth was, she didn't want to hurt Moose. She wanted to hurt her mother.

"That's brilliant," Zephie said in response. "We need her to get rid of him herself. She even told Moose that he needs to stop destroying things…"

Together, they hatched a plan.

A few days later, Flora snuck into her mom's closet and ran her fingers over the clothing collection. Vibrant colors, soft fabrics. She landed on a long duster her mother had purchased in Rio. The pattern was mesmerizing, the fabric delicate. It had some sentimental value, though Flora didn't know why.

"This is perfect," Zephie said.

When Jodi found the shredded sweater, she cried. Moose tried to comfort her, but Jodi closed herself in her room. The dog turned to Flora and stared at her with his giant dark eyes. He knew. He knew exactly what she had done.

Flora felt icky. Maybe her plan hadn't been so brilliant after all. Ashamed, she bowed her head and fiddled the hem of her yellow dress between her fingertips. She would never wear that dress again.

Within a week, Moose was gone. Jodi said he had separation anxiety, so she found an old man two towns over who never left his house. The man continued to send her photos of Moose until the dog died a decade later. Moose lived a great life.

For Flora, though, nothing changed. Her mother never returned to brushing her hair at night, and she never wrestled on the ground with Flora like she had with the dog. She was just a sadder version of Jodi, no more interested in her daughter than she had ever been.

Moose, Flora realized, was never the problem.