art by Billy Sagulo
by Elizabeth Archer
She looked at the golden orange fish swimming in the bowl and carefully examined the fins, the scales, the huge eyes, the size. She shut her eyes and dumped the fish down the wastewater chute and pushed the button to liquefy it.
"Not right yet? Malala is only seven. Will she really be able to tell it isn't the same fish?"
"Of course she will," she told Adan, narrowing her eyes at her husband. "I would have known, when I was seven. She looks at this fish first thing in the morning, the moment her light switches on. Gibba is her world. Her only pet. She loves that fish."
"Maybe we should tell her, Nala," Adan urged gently. "The time has come to talk of death and dying."
"I can't," Nala snapped. "Not yet. Not after."