Norman scratched his head, pondering which resupply ship brought the rats.
He and Nancy had rats on their Wisconsin farm, but their retirement home in space was fully automated. Pest control, even funeral arrangements. All in the contract.
Except it hadn’t responded when Nancy died the week before.
Hadn’t responded to the rats.
Modern technology. Worthless. Norman held the trap, stout wood with VICTOR stamped on it, grimacing at the irony as he baited it with Nancy’s fingertip.
The finger she’d used to grasp her beloved brick cheese, the only part of her body not gnawed down to gleaming bone.
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