Jade Deadweight

The street light above you flickers twice and holds. Your phone shows three unread messages. One from your landlord. Two from your sister. You put it back in your pocket.

The hamburger in your hand cost four dollars and change. Soy protein, textured, pressed into a patty and grilled until the edges crisp. Everyone calls it a hamburger. The small soda, another two. That's dinner.

Your ex moved out nine days ago. The apartment still has her things in places. A hair tie on the bathroom counter. Half a bottle of conditioner in the shower. You haven't touched any of it.

Your sister needs three hundred for her car payment. You didn't pick up. She texted after. You didn't open it.

You walk and chew at the same time because going home means sitting in the quiet.

Something green in the alley ahead. Bigger than the industrial dumpster next to it.

A dragon. Face-down on the concrete, arms folded under his chin, legs stretched behind him, tail curling to one side. Jade-green scales cover his back, arms, legs. The underside of his tail is white. A thick mane of red hair runs from his head down his spine, tangled and greasy, clumped in places. His gut spreads underneath him, pale belly scales pressing flat on the concrete. He's big in every direction.

He's naked.

Two women ahead of you glance into the alley.

"That's sad," one says.

"You don't see that often." They keep walking.

Dragons don't end up in alleys. You see them behind desks in financial offices, in tailored suits on TV. A dragon on the ground between a dumpster and crushed cardboard is wrong.

The snoring is loud. Each exhale vibrates his lips. The nearest cardboard box shifts with every breath.

You look at the hamburger. Three bites in.

You step into the alley. Old garbage, urine, something sharp that prickles your nose.

You crouch near his head. His snout is long and broad, a line of drool running from his mouth to a puddle on the ground. One finned ear twitches.

You hold the hamburger out.

His jaws open. Fast. The lower jaw drops, the upper lip curls back, and your hand goes in past the wrist before you understand what's happening. His tongue rolls against your palm. The hamburger is gone. The wrapper with it. He swallows without chewing.

You pull your hand out. Spit coats your skin from fingertip to forearm, thick and clear, stretching in strings from your hand to his lip before they snap. Your stomach turns. You wipe your hand on your pants. It doesn't come off clean.

One eye opens. Gold iris. It rolls toward you.

"Mmh." He smacks his lips twice. "Thanks."

The eye closes. He turns his head to the other side and the snoring starts again within seconds.

You leave.

Three blocks away, something hits you in the face. Paper. You hold it under the next street light.

A fifty-dollar bill.

You look up and down the street. Nobody. No open windows above.

You fold it and keep walking.

---

The interview is at 10:00 AM. You get there at 10:23.

The bus came late. Then you got on the wrong one. Then you walked six blocks in dress shoes that pinch because they're the only pair without holes. You don't know anything about the company. The name has "solutions" or "synergy" in it.

The route takes you past the same alley.

He's awake.

Sitting up against the brick wall, legs stretched out, gut settling heavy between his thighs. He's yawning, jaw cranked open, every tooth visible, the inside of his throat glistening. He holds it for a long time. His jaw clicks shut and he smacks his lips. He scratches his belly with one claw, hard keratin dragging over smooth scales. Brings his hand up and sniffs his fingers. His face scrunches.

"Ugh." He sniffs them again.

He spots you. Gold eyes fix. His tail curls once.

You bought two pre-made sandwiches this morning. You pull one from your bag and walk to the mouth of the alley.

"Oh, hey. You again."

You hold out the sandwich.

He takes it with his claws this time. The plastic triangle disappears in his fist. He turns it over.

"The hell is this? Is this food?" He peels the plastic back, sniffs, shrugs. "Whatever."

He tosses it in his mouth. The plastic crunches between his teeth. He chews twice and swallows.

"Thanks." He picks a piece of plastic from between his front teeth and flicks it away. Then he looks at you. Direct, steady. His pupils widen. His nostrils flare.

"Hm." He rubs the side of his snout. "You got somewhere to be today."

His eyes track over your dress shirt, your shoes, your bag.

"Yeah. You got that look." He settles back and folds his arms over his chest. "Good luck with the interview."

He belches. It echoes off the walls. He closes his eyes and lets his head thump against the brick.

"Go on, you're already late, aren't you?"

You didn't mention an interview. You haven't said a single word to him. Either time.

He cracks one eye open.

"What? Go. Shoo." He waves one massive hand at you.

You leave.

The interview goes badly. A thin cat in wire-rim glasses sits across from you with a clipboard and a mouth that stays flat the entire time.

"What do you know about our company?"

You give an answer that doesn't say anything.

"And where do you see yourself in five years?"

You give an answer that says even less.

The pen scratches against the clipboard.

"We'll be in touch."

10:51 AM. Twelve minutes, including the part where she offered you water and you took too long to answer.

Four hours later, she calls. Her voice sounds different on the phone. She clears her throat twice.

"We'd like to offer you the position. Starting Monday, if that works for you."

She tells you the salary. Almost double what you make now.

"We were very impressed," she adds, and doesn't elaborate on what impressed her about twelve minutes of nothing.

You accept. You sit on your couch and look at the wall.

---

The next day you go back.

Same spot against the wall, one leg folded under him. He's scratching behind both ears at once, claws working through the matted mane, eyes half-closed. One foot bounces against the concrete.

"Mmmyeah. Oh, that's the spot." His toes curl. "God, that's good."

He sees you.

His ears snap straight. His hands drop. A grin splits across his snout.

"Hey! There you are!" He waves, his whole body shifting with the motion, tail slapping the ground. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you forgot about me."

All you have is a fun-size Snickers from the gas station.

He pinches it between two claws. It's tiny in his grip.

"Oh, hell yeah. Candy." He squints. "'Snickers?' What kind of name is 'Snickers?'"

He tosses it in, wrapper and all.

"Mmf. Peanuts. Good." He chews with his mouth open. Chocolate sticks to one fang. "You know, you're alright. Most people walk past like I'm furniture. You actually..."

Footsteps. Fast, behind you.

"Don't move! Give me your wallet. Phone. Both of you!"

A dog at the mouth of the alley. Young, maybe twenty. Brown fur, patchy. Track jacket with a broken zipper. A pistol in his outstretched hand, the finish worn to bare metal. His arm is shaking.

"I said don't move! I'll shoot, I swear I'll..."

Your body locks.

A voice from above.

"Oh! Oh no, look out!"

A ceramic pot drops from the fourth floor. It hits the dog on the crown of his skull with a flat, heavy crack. His knees give out. He drops against the wall and slides to the ground. The gun bounces from his hand and skitters behind the dumpster. Dirt and broken ceramic scatter across the concrete. A small fern, roots and all, lands on his chest.

A raccoon is leaning out of the fourth-floor window, paws over her mouth. Moving boxes stacked behind her.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry! The box just slipped, I..."

The dog groans. A welt rises through the fur on his head. He's breathing.

The dragon picks a shard of ceramic off his belly and flicks it.

"Yeah, he's fine. Don't worry about it, sweetheart. Accidents happen."

He turns to you. His voice drops.

"You should go. Cops are gonna show up. You're standing in an alley over an unconscious guy with a gun behind the dumpster. They're gonna see you. That's it."

He jerks his head toward the street.

"Go home. Eat something. You look like shit." He leans back and scratches under his chin. "And hey, congratulations on the job."

You leave. Three blocks away your hands are still shaking. You put them in your pockets and keep walking.

He knew about the interview. He knew about the job. He knew you'd come back.

---

The alley is empty.

The dumpster is there. The cardboard boxes. A dark stain on the concrete where he was sitting. No dragon.

You stand there holding a brown paper bag with a breakfast burrito inside. You don't know when you started budgeting for two meals on these walks.

You eat the burrito yourself and go to work.

The new job is fine. The cat assigns you a desk, a computer, onboarding paperwork. She shows you the break room. The pay is real. The work fills hours.

You take the bus home. This route passes the alley on the other side of the street. Still empty.

You climb the stairs to unit 308. Pull your keys out.

Three heavy knocks. Coming from your door. Someone in the hallway, knocking from this side.

You round the corner.

The smell reaches you first. Old sweat baked into scales, garbage, something musky and animal that coats the inside of your mouth. Your eyes water.

The dragon is standing at your door.

One arm raised against the upper door frame, leaning his weight into it. His claws have left half-moon scratches in the paint. His shoulders are wider than the door. His tail curls against the opposite wall. His mane hangs in greasy clumps. Every scale is filthy, the jade green dulled to moss, the white belly plates smudged gray.

Naked.

He turns his head. Gold eyes. The grin.

"Hey."

His arm slips off the frame. His body lurches forward and his other arm catches both sides of the doorway. The wood groans. He steadies himself, feet planted wide, gut swaying.

"Whoa. Shit." A flake of paint falls. "Everything in this building is small."

He straightens as much as the ceiling allows. A horn scrapes drywall.

"So listen. You got any vacant rooms in here? Spare room, closet, big enough corner, I'm not picky."

He found your address. You never told him your name.

A door opens down the hall. A tortoise, small, gray-green, housecoat and slippers, leans out. Her eyes travel down from his face to his chest to his belly to everything below. Her mouth opens.

"Young man. Put some clothes on. This is a residential building."

"I don't have clothes. What do you want me to do, wrap myself in newspaper?"

"I want you to not be naked in the hallway!"

"Then stop looking!"

Her door slams.

The stairwell door bangs open. A bull with a five-gallon water jug sees the dragon and stops.

"Man, you can't be out here like that."

"You want to lend me your shirt? It's not gonna fit." He gestures at himself. His gut jiggles.

The bull mutters something and keeps walking.

Another door. A fox, young, oversized headphones, a ring light glowing behind her. She peers out.

"Oh my god. Dude."

"What."

"You're naked."

"I am aware."

She looks past the dragon and sees you with your keys. "Is he with you?"

The dragon turns to look at you. The fox looks at you.

"He's with me," the dragon says, jerking a thumb. "We're tight. Best friends. Go way back."

The fox's expression settles entirely on you.

"Can you get him inside? Please?"

Her door closes. Lock clicks.

The dragon turns back. He lowers his head, the ceiling right there, and looks at you. The grin is gone. Ears angled back. Tail still. He brings his hands together, claws laced.

"Please?"

Quieter. The gravel still there, but softer. Gold eyes wide, pupils round, brow ridges lifted.

"I got nowhere else to go. I know how this sounds. Big naked guy shows up at your door, begging for a room. I get it." He scratches behind one ear. A flake of something falls from his mane. "But you're the only person in this whole city who's given me anything. Everyone else walks past, or crosses the street, or calls the cops. You gave me a burger. A sandwich. That little candy thing."

He counts them off on his claws.

"Nobody does that. I'll sleep on the floor. I don't need a bed. I've been sleeping on concrete for I don't even know how long."

Down the hall, another door cracks open. An eye peers out. The door closes.

He glances at it, then back at you.

"Also, I think the old lady is calling the cops, so if you could decide in the next thirty seconds, that'd be great."

You step aside. He squeezes through the doorway, shoulders scraping both sides of the frame, gut clearing the bottom lock by an inch, tail whipping in behind him. His head nearly touches the ceiling.

He looks around. Sniffs the air.

"Smells like old carpet. Perfect. I'll fit right in."

He drops. Knees first, then hands, then flat on his stomach. The floor shakes. The TV wobbles on its stand. He folds his arms under his chin and his belly settles wide and flat against the carpet. His tail stretches back and curls against the front door.

"I'm Oro. This floor is mine now. Thanks."

He's snoring within a minute, vibrating the remote off the coffee table. A strand of drool connects his lower lip to the carpet.

You step over his tail to get to your bedroom.

---

You wake up to your alarm. You shower, dress, start the coffee.

Oro hasn't moved. Drool spot wider, a dark circle the size of a dinner plate soaked into the carpet. One foot twitches in his sleep. He farts. It vibrates through the floor. The smell reaches the kitchen three seconds later.

You eat toast and leave with the windows open.

When you come home, he's sitting against the wall, one hand scratching between his thighs.

"Hey. What's for dinner?"

First thing out of his mouth.

You make rice, canned vegetables, ground protein. Two plates.

He takes his, tips it into his mouth, chews twice, swallows. Runs his tongue around the inside of the plate, flips it, licks the bottom.

"Not bad. Bland as hell, but not bad. You got more?"

You give him your second portion. He eats it the same way.

"Better than that rat I ate in the alley. Don't ask."

You pause.

One eye opens.

"What? It was already dead. Mostly. You get hungry enough, you stop reading the menu and start reading the floor."

That night your bank sends a notification. Utility deposit refund from your previous apartment. Eighty-seven dollars.

---

Day two.

You start the coffee. The pot's halfway through when his voice comes from the floor.

"What the hell is that."

He's on his stomach, chin on his arms, nostrils going wide. His tail is thumping.

"That smell. Give me some."

You pour him a cup in a mixing bowl because your mugs don't fit his hand. He drinks it in one pull. His eyes go wide. His claws grip the carpet.

"Holy shit."

He holds the bowl out.

"More. Right now."

You pour another. Another. You go to pour your own and the pot is empty.

"Sorry. That's the best thing I've ever put in my mouth and I've put some questionable things in my mouth. Make more."

You leave for work without coffee.

By day four you're brewing two pots. He drinks both.

---

Day three.

You come home. The fridge is open. The leftover rice and deli slices are gone. The containers are on the counter, sort of stacked. The sponge is on the floor. There's a puddle of water and a long wet smear on the counter where he dragged his arm across it.

He tried to clean up.

Oro is by the couch, on his back, belly up, picking at his teeth with one claw.

"Got hungry. Your fridge is depressing."

He pulls something from between his molars, looks at it, eats it again.

"What's for dinner?"

You make dinner. He eats his plate and eyes yours.

"You gonna finish that?"

You give him half.

"I eat a lot. Don't look at me like that. Everything tastes like something now. It didn't used to. Food used to just be food. Now it all has flavor and texture. My mouth won't shut up."

He burps. Deep, from the bottom of his gut.

"Better out than in."

---

Day four.

He discovers the TV.

You come home and he's on his stomach, three feet from the screen, chin on both fists.

A cooking competition. A goat in a white jacket screaming at a contestant about a protein sear.

"I've been watching this bastard yell for six hours. My ass is numb and I don't care. That sear looked fine. I've eaten things raw. I've eaten things that were still making noise."

His tail thumps the floor.

"This box is incredible. I'd marry this box."

You make dinner. A contestant plates a dish with tweezers.

"She's using tiny metal sticks to put leaves on meat. One leaf at a time. That's the most psychotic thing I've ever seen."

From your bedroom you hear the TV and his running commentary. The granola box is empty in the morning. Six bars.

"I ate the plastic parts. Crunchy. Not bad actually."

---

Day five.

His tail stretches across the living room. You step over it. He doesn't move it.

Dinner. Rice, fried egg.

"The rice is boring. Put something on it. Sauce, grease, anything."

The next night you put soy sauce on his rice. He licks the bowl.

"See? Was that so hard?"

The night after: "Where's the meat? Real meat. A chunk. Those little sliced shavings dissolve before I can feel them."

Another night: "I saw something on the TV. A guy on a little bike brought food to someone's door in a bag. Tell me that's real. Tell me right now."

You show him the delivery app. He takes your phone in one hand and scrolls with the tip of his claw. His pupils dilate.

"Wait. All of it? Any of it. Right here. To this door."

You nod.

"Why the FUCK didn't you show me this on day one?? I've been lying here eating your sad rice, give me this. Move your hand."

He's already in the cart.

---

Day six.

You set your phone on the floor next to him before leaving for work.

You come home. Plastic bag on the door handle. Noodles, large. Seventeen dollars. Thirty percent tip.

Oro is on his back. Belly round and tight. One noodle plastered to the scales under his chin. The container on the floor, licked reflective.

"Those noodles. I think I saw god. I think god was in those noodles and I ate him."

Next day. Two receipts. Dumplings 11:30, fried rice 2:15. Both containers licked. Grease shining on his chin.

"I got hungry. Then I got hungry again. My stomach doesn't have a schedule."

He figured out your phone password. You didn't give it to him.

"Your password is your birthday. That's the first thing everyone tries."

---

Day seven.

Both fridge doors open. Empty shelves. Light humming over nothing. The eggs, twelve, bought yesterday, all gone. The ketchup bottle squeezed flat. The butter wrapper licked clean. A forgotten jar of pickles, empty on its side, juice pooling in a green puddle on the carpet.

Oro on his back. Belly distended. Gurgling. Crumbs pressed into his scales. Ketchup smeared from his lip to his chin.

He opens one eye.

"Okay. Before you start."

You haven't started anything.

"I know what this looks like. But I woke up at four and my gut was screaming at me. Everything in the fridge was just sitting there doing nothing. I saved them."

He pauses.

"The eggs were fine raw. The shells add texture."

He looks at the ketchup bottle.

"I drank that. The whole thing. You don't know what it's like to have taste buds after not having them for a few years. Everything's a revelation."

Your phone buzzes. Email from your manager. Promotion. Fifteen percent raise.

---

The smell.

Day four it's faint. Day six it's in the couch cushions. By day eight it's in your clothes. You pull a shirt from the closet, behind a closed door, and it smells like him.

At work, your coworker moves her coffee to the far side of her desk without looking at you.

That night you buy industrial soap from the hardware store. You fill the bathtub.

You nudge him with your foot. He grunts.

"Piss off. Sleeping."

You nudge harder.

"Whatever it is, no."

You grab his wrist and pull. His arm extends. Everything else stays bolted to the floor.

You get behind him, shoulder against his back, and push. Three inches. The carpet bunches under his belly.

"Are you pushing me? With your little body? That's adorable."

Twenty minutes. By the time his head is in the hallway your shirt is soaked.

He doesn't fit through the bathroom door. His shoulders wedge in the frame. He sees the tub. The water.

"No."

You push.

"What's the point? I'm gonna sit my ass on that carpet right after and in two days I'll smell the same. You're wasting soap. You're wasting your little arms."

You push harder.

"Okay OKAY! Stop shoving! I'll go!"

He squeezes through. Paint chips off both sides.

He looks at the tub.

"I don't fit in that. You know I don't fit in that."

He grins. Wide, fanged, triumphant.

You pick up the scrub brush and fill a bucket from the tap.

The grin dies instantly.

"Don't you dare."

You dump the bucket over his head.

"COLD. SHIT. THE OTHER HANDLE! THE HOT ONE!"

He sits on the bathroom floor, tail wrapped around the base of the toilet, knees jammed into the wall. You scrub. The water running off him is brown.

"Ow. OW. Wrong way. The scales go down. DOWN. You're scraping them backwards."

You adjust. The water turns gray.

"This is humiliating. I want you to know that."

You scrub under his arms. He turns his head away.

The water runs clear. You work the tangles out of his mane with a comb. He grabs the edge of the sink.

"OW. Are you pulling it out? Just rip it all off. Make me bald."

Twenty minutes. His mane falls straight and thick down his back. The jade green of his scales is vivid, casting faint green light on the white tile. The belly plates smooth and nearly glossy.

He sits on the wet floor. Sniffs his arm.

Again.

He gets up, goes to the living room, lies down on the floor, still damp. Stares at the TV.

You catch him sniffing his arm an hour later. Then again before he falls asleep. He doesn't say anything about it.

---

You buy him clothes.

Online you find a 6XL novelty shirt with a hot dog on it.

He stares at it.

"That's got a hot dog on it."

You push it toward him.

"I'm in my own home. You've seen everything I've got. Multiple times. From every angle. We're past modesty."

In the morning the shirt is behind the TV, chewed into wet strips.

"Rats. Gotta be rats. Big, mean ones. Went right for the hot dog shirt."

---

Day nine.

You're in the kitchen. Coffee. Morning.

Arms wrap around you from behind. Your feet leave the floor. Your back presses into his belly, scales smooth through your shirt. He squeezes. Your ribs creak. His chin settles on top of your head.

"Morning."

He holds you. Your coffee mug is still in your hand. Your feet dangle six inches off the tile.

"Don't squirm. I'm not done yet."

He hums. Low and tuneless. You feel it through your ribs.

In the hallway, his arm hooks your waist as you walk past. You stumble sideways into his gut.

"Nope. You're staying. I haven't seen you all day."

On the floor, he pulls you down against him. Your body sinks into the give of his belly.

"Don't get up. I just got comfortable."

In the kitchen while you're cooking, he wraps around you from behind, chin on your head.

"Keep doing what you're doing. Pretend I'm not here."

---

Day ten.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

You open your eyes. Oro's face fills your vision. Gold eyes, mane hanging around his jaw.

His belly lets out a rolling gurgle that shakes the mattress frame.

He pats it. "You hear that? My gut outranks both of us."

You pull the pillow over your face. He tosses it across the room.

"Nope. It's morning. I'm starving. My stomach is eating itself. Feed me or watch me die."

Every morning. Five minutes before your alarm.

Tuesday: "Eggs. Wait. I ate the eggs. All of them. Yesterday. With the shells. That's on me. But you should buy more. Way more. The brown ones."

Wednesday: "I had a dream about dumplings. A sex dream. About dumplings. Can you order some before you leave?"

Thursday: "I'm dying. This is death. Feed me. Please. I'll say please once. That's the only one you get."

---

The food disappears.

Twelve eggs on Monday, empty carton Tuesday. Bread Wednesday, two slices left Thursday morning, twist tie on the floor with tooth marks.

"The twist tie tasted like bread adjacent. I was committed at that point."

A bag of rice that should last two weeks lasts four days, turned inside out, licked shiny. You hide chips on top of the fridge. Empty bag on the living room floor that evening.

"I didn't even have to reach. I leaned. Leaning isn't even effort."

The delivery orders stack up. Dumplings 11:15. Fried rice 1:40. Soup and spring rolls 3:55.

"I have a system. Dumplings in the morning, dense, good foundation. Rice fills the gaps. Soup for cooldown. It's nutritional science. I invented it just now."

He holds the phone up.

"Also I found something called General Tso's. I don't know who General Tso is but that man understood fried food. I ordered three."

---

The delivery driver that evening is a mouse. Small, brown-furred, helmet too big, thermal bag clutched with both paws.

Oro opens the door.

The mouse looks up. His whiskers go flat.

"Order for, uh..."

"Yeah. That's me. Give it."

Oro reaches down. The mouse flinches. Oro takes the bag, already opening it, already turning away.

The mouse stands in the hallway for a second. Then his footsteps in the stairwell, quick, two at a time.

"Why do they always look at me like that? I tipped thirty percent."

---

The containers pile around his spot. Styrofoam and plastic and crumpled napkins. When the pile reaches a certain radius he starts pushing containers into stacks.

"It's organized. I know where everything is. That's Tuesday. That's Thursday. That one, I don't remember what it was but I think about it sometimes."

He sheds. Jade-green flakes, fingernail-sized, everywhere. In the carpet. Your shoes. Between the keys of your keyboard at work, carried in your bag.

"That's healthy. Good scales pushing out bad scales. You should be worried if I stop shedding."

He doesn't cook. He watches you from the floor.

"Is it done yet?"

You just turned the stove on.

"It smells done."

Nothing smells like anything yet.

"Okay but now is it done?"

One morning you hold up a pan. Point at the stove. Point at the eggs. Point at the pan.

"Yeah. I get the concept. The thing is, you're already incredible at this. Why would I step in and shit all over your art? I'm doing you a favor by not cooking."

He puts his chin back on his arms.

"Also I'd have to stand up."

He doesn't clean. The sponge from day three is still behind the trash can. Your last clean towel is on the living room floor, stained orange with sauce.

"I needed it. My face was a disaster."

He doesn't leave the apartment. Not once.

"Why would I go outside? Food shows up at the door. The TV works. You're here."

The carpet under his spot is permanently compressed, a body-shaped flat spot, darker than the surrounding floor, claw marks at the edges. A grease stain traces the exact curve of his belly.

The toilet seat cracked. He didn't mention it. You found out by sitting down.

---

Day nine. Your landlord knocks. Printed letter, turning it front to back.

"Rent's going down. Tax reassessment. Building-wide."

He leaves. Behind you, a contestant on TV is arguing with a judge about salt.

"That guy's wrong," Oro says. "Needs more salt. I can smell a dish that needs salt from across a building. MORE SALT."

---

Day ten. Your sister calls.

She got a new job. Doesn't need the three hundred. Sorry for always asking. Her voice is steady.

You hang up. The wooden spoon is in Oro's mouth. He's chewing it, teeth marks deep in the wood.

"I was tasting it. Somebody's gotta do quality control."

The pot is half empty.

"Yeah. I ate most of it. Don't be dramatic, just make more."

---

Day eleven. A letter from your ex's lawyer. Withdrawing the joint account dispute. One paragraph. No explanation.

Upstairs, Oro is scrolling delivery menus.

"Do you like Thai food? Because I just figured out I like Thai food. I might love it. Marriage-level love."

Three restaurants. Forty-one dollars.

That evening, a bank notification. Employer overpayment applied to your credit card. Four hundred and twelve dollars.

---

Day twelve. A check in the mail. Old utility company, closed account. Six hundred and twelve dollars.

You get home. Oro is wedged into the kitchen between the counter and the fridge, holding the door open, staring at empty shelves.

"There's nothing in here. I mean there's nothing in here now. I ate everything."

He closes the fridge door. Opens it. Closes it.

"Still empty. I keep checking."

---

Day thirteen. Your manager pulls you aside. New project. Bonus attached. She tells you the number. You ask her to repeat it.

At home, Oro is on the couch. First time. It sags deep under his weight, cushions flattened, frame creaking. His legs hang off one end, tail off the other. One hand taps his scales to the show's theme music.

"The couch is better than the floor. Way better. Can't believe I spent days on the floor. This is my couch now."

You eat dinner in the kitchen because there is no room on the couch.

---

Day fourteen.

A twenty on the curb walking to the bus stop. Another wedged between the seat and the wall on the bus. The vending machine drops two candy bars when you press once. Your coworker brings you a coffee.

"Made extra," she says.

---

Tonight.

The apartment smells like peanut sauce.

Oro is on the floor. He's given the couch back, or rolled off it. A fresh crack in the coffee table where his tail hit. He's on his stomach, legs kicking slowly behind him, ankles crossing and uncrossing. Chin on both fists.

A takeout container by his elbow. Thai, Third Street. Empty. Licked.

He watches you come through the door. Ears up. Head tilting.

"So. How was work."

You put your bag down. Step over his tail. Go to the kitchen. The fridge door is open. Empty shelves.

"I was gonna close that. I was working up to it."

You close it.

"Come sit down. You always do this. You stand in the kitchen staring at the fridge. Come out here. Talk to me. I've been alone all day with the TV and the delivery guy. The delivery guy doesn't make eye contact anymore. Last time I opened the door before he knocked and he made a noise I've never heard a person make."

You sit on the couch. He's on the floor in front of you, chin on his fists, looking up.

"You look different today. Your shoulders are doing the thing."

You don't know what thing.

"The down thing. When something good happens your shoulders go down."

His tail swishes once.

He rolls onto his side. Reaches for your phone on the coffee table. The crack widens under his arm. He pulls up the delivery app.

"Dumplings. Third Street. Not the other place. The other place is sixty percent cabbage. I bit one open and counted."

Tap.

"Rice. Big one."

Tap.

"Three soups. Wait, they have wonton. Four soups."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Spring rolls."

Tap.

He holds the phone up. Cart total: forty-seven dollars.

"That's fine."

He presses order before you can move. Puts the phone down and rolls onto his back. Belly toward the ceiling. Hands resting on top of it, claws laced.

Then he turns his head and looks at you.

His gold eyes are steady. Pupils wide. Tail still on the carpet.

"Hey."

He watches your face.

"You've got something you wanna ask me."

The contestant on TV is crying. A judge talks about consistency.

"You've had it for a while. I can tell. You get this thing, right here," he taps the side of his own jaw, "your jaw tightens up. And you look at me a certain way and then you go stand in the kitchen."

He folds his arms behind his head.

"So go ahead. Ask."

The apartment is quiet except for the TV and the hum of the empty fridge. A shed scale slides off the couch cushion and drifts to the carpet.

He's still looking at you. Lying on the floor in the grease-stained outline of himself, surrounded by stacked containers and shed scales.

"I'm not going anywhere. Obviously. Where the hell would I go?"