She went in and got a bottle of chicha de oca from the fridge, with the stamped-on cap you could just twist off, went in the back room and made up the futon, limbs heavy though it was not yet that hot in the evenings, lay down atop the comforter, had not yet swapped it out for the throw that made more sense in the warm weather, lay there watching the color drain from the parcel of sky visible through the window on the north-facing side of the room. Directly overhead the cats were starting up, or a cat: sounded as if one of them was scrapping with an owl tonight. Still a couple left, you heard them from time to time. Sure to end in tears, or whatever cats did. She propped herself up on one elbow, twisting at the spine, slowing scanning the area past the head of the futon with the opposing hand, looking for where she’d set her beer. Still a bunch of stuff to bring in, and the place could use sweeping, and all this should be done before she had something to eat, which should also happen this evening, though nothing jumped out at her as something she had a desire to eat, just a vague awareness that her blood sugar had dropped in a way that could not be remedied simply by moving around or taking in more caffeine. A flapping, as of the owl, departing, having inflicted grievous injury on the cat that lay, lamenting its fate, on the far side of the boards whose edges she could just make out in the light coming from the security spots the neighbor had posted on the fence that marked the boundary between their lots. Protein was never her forte. A blocky rendering of an unopened packet of maize tortillas materialized on her inner screen, eight-bit, emojic: was this something she had in the house? Carb on carb. Maybe she had some kind of salsa verde or aduki sprouts. Miso. A scrambled plegg.