The woman can’t sleep. In the wee hours of the morning, she reads a book in the kitchen. A mouse peeks out at her from a stove burner. She notices the creature, but she continues reading for a while until finally joining her sleeping husband in bed. In the daylight, the couple tries to lure out the mouse. They place a few bread crusts on the counter and let their cat inside to strike when the prey takes the bait. After a few moments, the cat leaps out of the man’s arms and gobbles the bread. Defeated, the couple leaves the kitchen. The cat remains—not as a predator to the mouse, but as a friend. The woman observes this connection and contrasts it with her own relationship. Her husband is quick to anger, and her late-night reading contributes to the widening gap between them. Their country house is silent and lonely. Mice have always come in during the winter, and it once felt nice to know that at least some living thing found the home inviting. But they’ve been chewing up the wires, so now they have to go. The woman buys traps and sets them up all over the kitchen. That night, she reads in bed until her husband tells her to turn the light off. The next morning, specks of blood are spattered on the kitchen tiles. The poor mouse is caught in a trap, writhing and half-dead. The woman gingerly places the contraption in a dustpan and throws the mouse outside to die in the snow. Months later, the man and woman separate and move out. On the woman’s final walk through the house, the weight of its solitude sinks into her soul.