Jeffrey is driving the two young women, early to mid-twenties, to a hotel in the city. They are dressed as if to attend a reception, probably a wedding reception where there will be dancing. Both women are short, certainly not fashion models, but they are conventionally attractive and wearing little makeup. Both women are blonde, with one having her hair with a coiled braid about her head. The other has wavy hair of mid-length, somewhat darker, a honey shade. They don’t say much. The mood is quiet, somber, contemplative.

“I’m so sorry about Jeffrey,” the one with darker hair says. “I know you’re going to miss him.”

The other, after a moment, says, “I can’t believe he’s gone. I’ve had him since I was six.”

The darker blonde says, “Yeah, I was there when you got him. Remember when his claws got stuck in the screen?”

The one with braids nods. She says, “Or the time he was sunning himself out on the windowsill on the second floor, but the window was closed. Like he went right through the window. I really miss him. I miss him so much.”

“I know, I know,” her friend says. She touches the braided blonde’s cheek then slowly slides her middle finger along the lower lip. The lips part just enough to admit the finger. Slowly the finger pushes in. Pulls almost all the way out. In and out. In and out.

Just then the driver thinks he spots something darting in front of the car, and he brakes. Apparently it was nothing. He decides he’s definitely going to drop out of law school.