My something sloughed off while sleeping: lost like a sock to tangled blankets — comfort noticed only when absent. In cold toes, the first night passed. I imagined my something coiled around a neighbor's fence post. Murmuring curses that drove the crocus back beneath the earth. Come morning, I found it in the neighbor's garden. Muzzle blackened by soil. Uneven breathing made its ribs visible. I kept my distance and left a dish by the back door. More days passed — counted in forsythia blossoms, broken dishes, the initials my something clawed into the porch swing. Tonight, I woke to its whimper. Crept to the window. Foolishly, undid the latch.