Alton lay curled and dreaming of all those times he’d never noticed small things, and how this facet led him to meet his wife, who just left.

He had been a content bachelor, satisfied with tossing most of his belongings a foot inside his front door. He loved his apartment, 400 square, in the center of town with a sports bar nearby.

But he wanted something to feed, something dependent on him. First, a rare Burmese cat, a sweet tom that loved nothing more than getting high off Alton’s spunky workout clothes. And then another Burmese; a python. It always made sense to Alton.

The Burmese python was an escape artist, it wanted kitty, compatriot or not. All cats are escape artists too. It jumped on top of the stove, a vintage G.E., depressing some switches. The python found refuge from the Tupperware fire under the refrigerator, crushing the Westinghouse’s motor.

His insurance adjuster thought the whole thing funny. She leaned on Alton, peeling with laughter. For Alton, her hand on his arm, was a big thing.