The goldfish bowl teetered on the edge of the table, lost its battle with gravity.
I bolted upright. Next to me, Graham slept undisturbed. If a mouse farted, my brother jumped awake, knife ready. The sound was part of the dream.
Just pretend they’re fish sticks.
That’s what he said after knocking the bowl off the table. I cried. Mom gave them to us, “to save the species.” Graham slapped me, told me to stop wasting water. Then he handed me a mangled goldfish.
Buddy. Its name was Buddy.
Three days since my last meal. I didn’t hesitate long.