Part One

The pet shop man looked up when the door opened.

“Hey, Jane,” he said.

“Hello,” said the parrot on the counter.

“Hey,” she answered.

“Can I get you anything today? Some nice goldfish and a bowl, perhaps?”

“Hello,” interjected the parrot.

“No. Just looking. As always.”

The parrot said, “Pretty boy.”

The gray old man waggled his finger. “Mind your manners. Jane’s not a boy.” The parrot tried to nip his finger.

“It’s an easy mistake,” Jane said. She was long and lank with buzzed-short hair and an angular face. A belt pouch lay over her crotch like a man’s bulge. Her black jeans and stained leather jacket hung wet on her frame, giving her the look of a butch junior mechanic.

“Such a sweet thing as you? You should be in pictures, not filming them.”

“Hello,” said the parrot helpfully.

Jane considered telling him that she had once won a pissing contest, for distance. But the pet shop man lived in the same fantasy world as most of the prewar folks. Women, to him, were ladies.

She stopped to look at the rat cages. Pink eyed, white-furred rodents slept in a heap in their food dish. Most of the were destined for snake dinners. Jane used to own rats. She had treated them with meticulous care, but they still died just after turning three years old. Which was longer than most relationships lasted, she thought. One of the ferrets recognized her and rattled its cage until she...