The underside of the fish was the colour of the sky: an off smog. It was not a good day for breathing. Jeff prodded the floating corpse with a chopstick. ‘Sorry, Confucius,’ he said, though he was glad it was dead. Jeff inhaled the sweet vegetable scent of the gunk in the water, the slight chemical tang of it. Goldfish eyes stared with milky acceptance. Probably he forgot to adjust the pH level. Or Helen overfed it. She wasn’t up yet. He wouldn’t say anything now. He laid the chopstick on the kitchen counter, slipped out the front door, and went to work.