“No,” Poire gasped. “No. I shouldn’t be here right now.” Let me out, she thought as she grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it past her feet. “Why have you taken me back?” she shouted at the moon. “I need to return back to the bathroom! I must—”

“Calm yourself, girl.”

Poire turned around. “Mister Lemur.” Her shoulders deflated. “This makes no sense,” she said. “I should have died when I sank to the bottom of the ocean.”

The lemur laughed. “It seems you are not very well educated, girl.” He crossed his tiny, furry arms and huffed once more. “Bodies always float back up to the surface. Whether it be in a week, a month, or a year, we will always learn about their secret eventually.”

Poire tilted her head. “You believe that killing yourself counts as a secret?” she asked him, tapping her foot once, then twice. “That’s a little messed up, Mister Lemur, if I do say so myself.”

He chuckled again. “Everything is a secret,” was his reply. “That is… until you show somebody, tell them, or they find out for themselves.”

“I don’t think I quite follow,” she said. “Could you please stop talking in riddles? I need to know how to get out of here.”

“What I’m saying”—the lemur clicked his tongue—“is that your escapades in your mother’s kitchen, when nobody is home, count as a secret.”

“Oh.” Had it not been for the giant petals protruding from the place where her once-existing head previously stood, Poire would surely have frowned as she pressed her palms to her waist. “So, basically, you are only telling me nonsense once again,” she said.

“Take it as you will,” the lemur replied. “I am only giving you my best advice.”

“But that is not going to help me return to the bathroom!” Poire stomped her feet. “I don’t need your advice!” she shouted, her voice a desperate cry, as she rose her fists to her petals and began plucking them out one by one. “I need to go buy another one, before it’s too late, before father comes home!”

The lemur’s eyes began to glow again. “But it is already too late, girl,” he said.

As soon as Poire heard the words, she opened her eyes.

But the world was not made up of white tiles; nor, for that matter, was she in front of her bathroom.

It was crowded. And the sun was setting.

A tall man in his thirties stood in front of her. “Are you okay, miss?” he asked her with a look of concern plastered across his features, one that seemed genuine to Poire. “I heard complaints that you’d been knocking on our store’s door for quite a while now.” He let out an awkward laugh and hooked a hand around his neck. “I apologize, I was out back and unable to hear you. We close a little earlier than most shops in town. You see, I don’t drive, and the bus doesn’t come around that often where I live.” The man scratched the back of his head and showed her the glimpse of an embarrassed grin. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” he told Poire. “I’d love to help you if there’s anything you are interested in—"

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His last words were words Poire did not register. As she looked to her left, and came face to face with a storefront decorated by tall bold letters that spelt out PET STORE in a darker shade of red, she wanted to wonder how she had gotten here. However, what surprised Poire the most in this mess, was the fact that she was no longer able to recognize her reflection. There was in fact a girl staring back at her from inside the letter O, and even though she moved at the same time as Poire and blinked in unison, it was as if Poire had no knowledge or memory of ever meeting the poor soul.

“So…” The man cleared his throat. “I do hope you will find it in yourself to understand.”

“No!” Poire blurted. Her body moved on its own accord. She grabbed the man’s wrist. “Please,” she begged, “I really need that fish. I don’t mind paying you extra, e-even twice the price is okay. But, please, I need—”

The man sighed. “This is serious, isn’t it?”

Poire stood on her tiptoes and nodded.

He shook his head, clicked his tongue in a way that reminded her of the lemur, before shoving his hand into his pocket and taking out a key he then used to unlock the pet store’s door. “Wait here,” he said.

Poire didn’t know why, but as she thanked the owner, she suddenly felt the urge to cry. It was as if the universe had fallen over and she was the only one who’d witnessed the catastrophe. Perhaps I’m dreaming, she thought, maybe this isn’t real after all. Maybe I’m running a fever, and this is one of those long, weird fever dreams.

However, when the man returned with a plastic bag—the prison that held a new goldfish who swam in frantic circles—it did not feel like fiction. The modest chill that seeped out of the wrinkly, transparent bag and onto her palms when he handed it to her was much too calculated and real; and Poire knew that her brain did not have such capacities to create these things on its own. She was not a terrible student, but she did not excel in any particular subject either, especially when it came to whichever creative endeavors they expected from her during art class. Her trees tended to look like puddles of mud, leaving one to wonder whether or not the artist had purposely spilled specks of green paint onto the sides, instead of seeing the leaves she saw. It was something she was teased a lot about in the past. They had called it a complicated word Poire remembered as “inadequacy.”

She wasn’t proud of it.

She wasn’t proud of herself, really.

Poire reached into her pockets, in search of her allowance, but the man stopped her. “Take it,” he said. “It’s free.”

“Nonsense!” Poire laughed. “I must pay you, that’s how things go, or else it wouldn’t be—”

The man smiled. “You should get home to your family, miss,” he said. “It’s getting dark out. I know I wouldn’t want my daughter playing in the street so late. So just take it. It’s on me.”

Poire was speechless. What can I possibly reply to that? she wondered. “Thank you,” seemed to be the most natural response.

He gave her a curt nod. “You’re welcome. Enjoy your new friend.” He turned around.

It then occurred to Poire that he was right: the sun was setting, and her agony just beginning. For Father might be home by now, she thought as a lump of invisible coal swelled in her dried throat. And as Poire quickly took off in the opposite direction, dodging flickering stoplights and shadows, she rushed back to her home.

The sky was a deep purple sprinkled with the occasional pinks. It was a beautiful sight—one Poire unfortunately never got to see.