“What’s wrong?” Luke said.
“The guitar,” Matty said.
“What about it?”
That was when he saw the dead cat, lying in the living room carpet like a lump of discarded laundry.
“What’s going on?” he said.
Matty began to explain.
––––––––
He had meant to tune the guitar. “I used to play, you know,” he told Luke, guiding him to the couch and sitting him down. Luke stared forward at the cat in the floor, unable to look away.
“Is that Janie’s—”
“Listen,” Matty said, squeezing his hands.
He’d meant to tune it. Had started tuning it, picking the strings in sequence and turning the corresponding pegs, when he heard Muff mewling at the door. He hadn’t noticed the flies yet.
“Flies?” Luke asked.
Matty gestured at the coffee table. On its fogged glass surface were five or six fat black flies.
