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“There are aardvarks in the sewers,” she said, “and we have to protect ourselves.”

She was trying to nail the toilet lid shut.

I had my jacket half-off in the front hall. I could see into the bathroom and the kitchen from where I was standing.

The fridge was open and from what I could see, it was full of meat. There must have been over five hundred dollars worth of cheap hamburger filling every shelf.

I finished taking my jacket off and moved towards her.

She brought the hammer down with a mighty swing. The toilet shattered.

She screamed at the flowing water and broken toilet, presumably because her plan had backfired and the aardvarks now had easy access to our apartment.

I joined her on the bathroom floor. I hugged her and soothed her until her screams started to become wheezes.

She’d already cut the tongues out of her shoes so that they wouldn’t be able to tell me where she had been, she said.

Sirens grew louder and then stopped outside our apartment block.

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door from the paramedics.

She stiffened in my arms.

“Mr. Jacobson?” the paramedics said through the letter slot.

“Aardvarks!” she whispered to me with wide, terrified eyes.


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