After waking up to another cockroach contemplating her from the bedroom wall, Mrs. March at last committed to calling the exterminator. She had inquired about the possibility of vermin throughout the building in whispers to the doorman, but he had dismissed the idea, suggesting to Mrs. March a more thorough attempt at regular cleaning. She had responded with a nervous laugh, mortified that he regarded her as unclean, as unworthy of residence in the high-end apartment building. She did not bring up the subject again.

However, upon finding the voyeuristic specimen on her bedroom wall, its shoe-polish black carapace taut over the ridges of its thorax, like an old man’s veined, leathery hands, she resolved to put a stop to the problem once and for all. She could not risk anyone catching wind of the infestation—an invasion so foul it was portrayed in films and books as a sure sign of poverty and sloth. Cockroaches thrived in the grimy, decrepit lodgings of junkies, not in tastefully decorated apartments or in the understated but spotless quarters of a working professional. She had never encountered roaches in her parents’ apartment, or in George’s old place—the one he’d been renting near campus when they first met. Afraid to be judged by her, Mrs. March had avoided telling Martha about the insects—but she shook every time she pictured Martha chancing upon one in the bathroom.

The morning after calling the service, she welcomed the exterminator into her home. He was a kind man of ruddy complexion, dressed in a dark green jumpsuit and heavy boots. He headed straightaway to the Marches’ master bath, taking care not to topple anything with his canister of insecticide. He knelt on the floor by the toilet, checked every corner, drain, and crack, and assured her that the roaches did not live in her apartment. “I don’t see any … and I see no sign of any droppings. Maybe a couple found their way into your bathroom through the pipes?” he said as he examined a tiny crack in the baseboard, “maybe from outside, maybe from another neighbor”—Mrs. March’s heart leapt at this particular possibility—“but we’re not dealing with a plague here,” the exterminator continued, “so here’s what we’ll do. I’m gonna apply the poison in the bathroom, just a little bit in every corner, and over the next couple of days you might see some dead ones—don’t worry about it—and after a few weeks they’ll stop appearing altogether.” He explained all this while on one knee, gesticulating like a commander explaining a war stratagem to his troops.

The man smeared the poison, a brown, syrupy gel, into every nook, while Mrs. March sipped tea from a mug that said Today could be a wonderful day! The mug, old and chipped, was part of a surprise breakfast basket her sister had sent over for her birthday. She would not have bought the mug herself; it seemed too menacingly sanguine for her taste. The basket was a beautiful rattan picnic hamper, filled with juicy, swollen red raspberries and purple grapes, a stoppered glass bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice, sugar-crusted scones, and a small bouquet of daisies. Her sister enjoyed a reputation for her meticulousness with presents. She always managed to gift the most lovely things. It was annoying, really. It almost felt like a competition. Mrs. March probably still had the basket somewhere—probably buried in the linen closet. She could find it, fill it with flowers, maybe put it on a shelf, or on top of the fridge in the kitchen. Why, she could even renovate the entire kitchen accordingly, transforming it into a rustic dream of wicker-backed chairs, red gingham tablecloths, and dried flowers in old tin watering cans or hanging upside down from wooden ceiling beams.

The exterminator looked up from the bathroom floor. “That should kill ’em dead. Mind if I wash this stuff off my hands?”

When Mrs. March saw him off, she strolled, in as casual a manner as she could manage, into the kitchen to toss the tainted hand towel into the trash and ask Martha to bread the chicken cutlets for lunch. She had resolved to tell Martha, only if prodded, that the exterminator’s visit was merely preventative as she’d caught wind of an infestation in the building next door, but Martha only nodded her head at the petition for chicken cutlets, and went right on peeling potatoes.

AFTER LUNCH, Mrs. March sat filing her nails in the living room, the television on in the background to keep her company in an otherwise indifferent household—Jonathan was home from school in his bedroom and George was showering. Martha, meanwhile, puttered about George’s study, taking advantage of his rare absence to swoop in and tidy up.

“The body of Sylvia Gibbler, missing since November eighteenth, has been found. The cause of death remains unknown, pending an official autopsy.”

Mrs. March looked up from her mottled nails to the television screen, which displayed the familiar black-and-white photograph of Sylvia, smiling at her just as brightly as she had done from the news clipping in George’s notebook.

“Authorities are questioning friends, neighbors, and the patrons of this quaint gift shop, where Gibbler worked until her disappearance.” The camera panned, rather dramatically, Mrs. March thought, across the purple storefront, showcasing a haphazard window display with no apparent color palette, a hodgepodge of old teapots and cookie canisters, gaudy tinsel hanging from the ceiling. Over the purple doorway gold-painted script read The Hope Chest. “This tight-knit community is in mourning, having lost all hope of ever seeing Sylvia alive again,” said the news reporter. “Back to you in the studio, Linda.”

Mrs. March turned off the television, unease wriggling through her belly like a handful of maggots. She headed toward George’s study, with the intention of sneaking another look at the newspaper clipping hidden in his notebook while he was in the shower. Instead, she found him pacing from the study to the bedroom as he packed a small leather suitcase laid open on the bed.

“George? What are you doing?”

“I’m packing. For Gentry.”

“You’re leaving today?”

“Yes.” He looked at her, somewhat surprised. “Did you forget, honey? We talked about this.”

“We did? Are you sure you said today?”

She had indeed forgotten about his hunting trip with his editor. Edgar owned a cabin somewhere near Augusta, Maine, in an unassuming little town called Gentry. She had never been there herself (she’d never been tempted to visit, nor had she ever been invited), but she had some notion of it from photos George had shared with her throughout the years. Mrs. March was almost more attuned to the hunting seasons than to her own menstrual cycle.

She watched George pack. “Must Edgar be there?”

“Well, it would be odd to be there without him. It’s his cabin after all.”

She looked down at her hands and spied a hangnail. She began to pick at it. “It’s just that I feel like he’s always picking on me. He makes me … uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Nonsense! Edgar loves you. In fact, he finds you absolutely adorable. He could eat you up, he’s said on more than one occasion.”

The memory of a smug Edgar, his yellowed teeth biting into the flesh-colored foie gras, prompted a surge of bile in her throat. “I just don’t know why you spend so much time with someone who enjoys killing. It’s a cruel sport.”

“I know, I know how you feel, and I get it. I do. It can seem savage and unnecessary—the ultimate superiority complex.”

“So why do you do it?”

George peered at her over his glasses as he bent over the suitcase, tartan scarf in hand. “It’s exhilarating. There’s something primal about it, instinctual even, despite it being watered down since the Bronze Age.” He smiled. “You’re so sweet to care about the animals, honey. But don’t doubt for a second that they would do the same to us. Or worse.”

Mrs. March fleetingly envisioned a moose on its hind legs holding a rifle, its lifeless human trophy propped up for a photograph. An illustration she’d seen once in one of Jonathan’s comic books, perhaps.

“Don’t worry yourself,” said George as he zipped up the suitcase. “It’s all regulated anyway. Too regulated if you ask me. It’s probably less of a hassle to hunt humans nowadays.” He chuckled and approached Mrs. March. “Hold down the fort for me?”

He kissed her on the forehead and headed for the front door, suitcase in tow. She watched him enter Jonathan’s bedroom for a quick, hair-ruffling goodbye, then saw him out. Afterwards she remained standing behind the closed door, like a dog with no capacity for understanding that its master is gone. She placed her fingers delicately on the door, when they were met by a sharp pulse-like knock that made her jump. Expecting an absentminded George returning for a forgotten winter hat, she turned the key, which they always left in the lock (her brother-in-law had once told her it was harder to break into a house from the outside if the key was in the lock), and opened the door to Sheila Miller.

They stared at each other with a shared malaise before Sheila said, “Hey there. We were just wondering if Jonathan could come up for a sleepover?”

Sheila was, for once, avoiding Mrs. March’s gaze. She was scratching at her wrist and the skin above her neckline, Mrs. March noticed, was flushed. Aware of the sound of Jonathan’s bedroom door opening down the hall, Mrs. March said: “Oh. Well, I don’t know—”

“Alec is begging me, and they do seem to have bonded quite a bit during the school trip.”

Jonathan appeared in the foyer, head cocked to one side.

“Hey, Jonathan,” said Sheila, then, to Mrs. March, “Sorry for barging in on you like this, without even calling first. I’m such a mess!” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “So what do you say? Can Jonathan come up?”

A silent Jonathan walked over to Sheila and stood beside her as he looked up at Mrs. March with his dark, sunken eyes.

“But—it’s a school night.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be all right,” said Sheila, putting her hands on Jonathan’s shoulders.

“You must have your hands full already,” said Mrs. March, uneasily. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all!” said Sheila.

The speed and volume of her response was such that Mrs. March had no choice but to hand Jonathan over to Sheila, along with his school bag, a toothbrush, a fresh shirt, and clean underwear. As he left, holding Sheila’s hand, Mrs. March watched the school badge on his bag as it grew smaller, the school’s owl mascot (had it not always been a badger?) staring back at her, in their walk down the hall and into the elevator.