Martha had never been able to anticipate what would come out of her mouth. She seemed to save things up, like arrows in a quiver. It didn't matter if you were a kid with a tennis racket or an adult in an adjustable bed. You needed to be always on your guard. Martha was heading back to the house when she narrowly avoided tripping on something in the grass. She fumbled for the flashlight on her phone, then crouched down in disbelief. There was no obvious wound, but she could tell even before she touched the rabbit's coat. The fur was oddly erect, as if from static and spangled with rain. Attila's side-facing prey animal's eye, blank now like a marble, hadn't saved him. It must have been the kitchen door that Judy had left open. Attila would have hopped down the steps and into the yard. The cat would have slipped through the fence and out of his foolish collar, given into all his ancient impulses. It was too cloudy for stars, but a half moon was rising low over the horizon. She would need something to wrap him in, maybe a bag to carry him past her mother. If Judy understood what was in the bag, she would be likely to ask questions. But whether she would connect the event to her own error was anyone's guess. What was certain was that she wouldn't remember that it had happened. She might not remember that Attila had existed at all. Was it possible that a creature with Attila's particular combination of wildness and vulnerability shouldn't be loved? That loving him showed Martha's desperation. She forced herself to look at the corpse, which seemed to have grown smaller in the minute she'd been crouching in the grass. Stay, she thought, but that directive couldn't be for the rabbit, who was inelectably gone. The grass was soaking her canvas shoes, but it seemed important not to get up just yet. This would be one of those private moments lost to history, in which Martha so passionately and unfashionably still believed. That was Nell Freudenberger reading her story, Attila. She's been publishing fiction in the magazine since 2001.