The rats want what we have. They come at night and scratch
in the kitchen, the pantry, looking for a way in. Most nights
they only get at the bin below the sink. Leave them alone,
North says, but I keep jamming steel wool into cracks. Our
place is saggy plywood shelves, couches found on corners,
tables made from crates and pallets—whatever we can’t push
in our sales. We’re not actually moving, but we throw a
moving sale every couple months. Fuck a yard sale. A moving
sale makes people hungry.