8
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The attic hatch is open and beneath it, Tad’s hopping on one foot, clutching the other. On the floor, a fat Webster’s lies splayed by a huge dead rat. From tail to nose, the creature’s as long as my forearm.
“I’m gonna wear goddamn shoes next time.” He gestures at his discarded flip-flop, a Floridian’s all-terrain, all-season footwear of choice.
I glance at my own exposed, hot pink toenails, then at the rat. “Did you hit it with a dictionary?”
“It bit me.”
“What? Did you step on it?”
“It went for my face. I punched it—I’m not kidding, Em, it attacked me. When it landed, it bit my foot!”
“Poor rat.”
“Poor foot!”
I stifle a giggle and bend to check out the rat. It looks somewhat flat and very dead. With Tad’s flip-flop, I prod at it. Stiff as a board. I flip it o
