Rat

As far as I knew, most of my mouse friends and family in our town experienced varying degrees of anxiety. This wasn't considered a problem but rather a longstanding mouse tradition passed down through generations. Our species had learned to fear predators, harsh weather, hunger, and, of course, humans. Fortunately, that month, we enjoyed some reprieve from the weather as we began living in a building with advanced climate control. The building belonged to a new drug company called Comedicin, and we all moved in a few weeks earlier.

Comedicin was also the name of the drug developed and patented by the company's scientists. Most people in the company knew little about the drug, but they understood the fortune it would bring. In those days, the drug hadn't yet been tested on humans, so we, the timid mice, were chosen as the first test subjects.

My father's name was Ziger, my mother's Anush, my older brother Beetle, and I was nicknamed Rat. We were randomly selected in the company lab on the top floor of the building. The only condition for the experiment was that we all belonged to the same family and originated from the same mouse town.

Dad was taken first. The new mouse catcher they started using picked him up first (this is what we saw when Connie's family disappeared a week ago). Then they took my mother, my brother, and finally me. We were taken in sequence, each assigned a number for identification purposes. Dad was number one, Mom number two, Beetle number three, and I was number four.

Our father always took the lead. He received the implanted syringes first and asked us to behave and not make too much noise during the process. He assured us it would pass. We knew it wouldn't, but out of respect for Dad, we played along. Although Beetle feigned indifference, I saw the discomfort in his eyes while in the glass aquarium with its two open round windows. Items were inserted through the right window and removed from the left.

Dad began to jump up and down in front of everyone, then lay on his back, complaining of an unknown feeling in his legs. He started crying. He was the first to fail in the game of courage and respect he wanted us to play, but we succeeded nonetheless. Mom and Beetle lay on their backs as their legs began to feel strange, but neither shouted nor cried. I cried like Dad, and I thought about how Mom always said I was Dad's child. Surprisingly, I found comfort in that thought. Despite the uncomfortable situation, I focused on that one positive thing.

Suddenly, our body temperatures dropped. Dad remained on his back, but Mom, Beetle, and I rolled onto our feet. Mom tried to get closer to Dad, but after a few attempts, the researcher installed clear glass partitions, dividing the aquarium into four sections. Beetle and I were near the lab window, Mom was in the middle, and Dad was on the far side, on his back.

Once they removed the syringes and wrapped us in a wet cloth smelling like cat's breath, I yelled at Dad to stand up. He said he would but first needed to shake off the strange feeling enveloping him. Dad asked if his tail was cut, and Beetle assured him it was fine. I tried to tell Dad the same, but a sudden wave of longing overtook me, and I choked on my words. I had no idea where it came from.

They provided green juice, tasting like rotten vegetables but odorless, through a dropper attached to a tube. Mom, partial to colored juices, drank a quarter of it. Beetle drank some, but not much. I drank an unknown amount; I felt weak, and my thoughts grew muddled like cheese left out on a summer day.

I woke up to Beetle and Mom pacing around each other. The lab workers removed the partitions. Mom sniffed Beetle and he sniffed her back. They always shared a special bond. In our previous home, when Mom went on long walks and returned hours later, Beetle would wait for her. We often saw him like that. When she arrived, he was the first to sniff her, cling to her, and befriend her. Dad once joked that we might not need him at home with Beetle around. This made Beetle and Mom laugh, likely because, as we say, the best mouse jokes have a slice of real cheese in them.

Mom called me over, and I eagerly obliged. They smelled terrible, and their eyes looked so wet. Mom's body had bleeding puncture wounds, but Beetle appeared fine, albeit unusually quiet. I tried talking to him, waiting for a response, but he remained silent, sticking close to Mom. At least he can see, I thought, and looked for my own reflection in the glass. My eyes felt wetter than usual, but otherwise, I didn't feel terrible. The cold sensation that had enveloped us dissipated, and we relished walking around just for the feeling of it. I walked the entire length of the aquarium.

In the lab, the lights were off, leaving only the green light on for the nearby plants. Beetle taught me to eat from these plants when I had nothing else. The company staff usually treated us well, providing food on time, sometimes even more than we could ask for.

Then, at one point I asked Mom, at the end of the aquarium, where Dad was, and she replied, "They took him now." I asked where they took him, and I already sensed the harsh truth within the glass cage. Although I knew they took Dad because he had died, I had to perform various actions before Mom would admit it, like pacing back and forth for no reason.

"Dad died," Mom said, and I felt chills return, albeit briefly and differently.

Beetle sat by Mom, pretending to comfort her.

"Is he really dead?" I asked.

Mom sniffed at Beetle.

"For him, it's over," she said.

I had never thought about one thing for an entire hour before. Mice like us (and even braver ones from nearby towns) aren't particularly good at such tasks. But I managed to think about Dad for an hour. Remembering him comforted me. Despite my grief, I clung to a thin thread of memory, hoping that one day I would see Dad again—strong, healthy, and loving. I would hear him call me, feel him cling to me or sniff me on cold nights. I wanted that to happen.

It never did. Dad didn't return. Nonetheless, whenever I had time, I went to the aquarium corner, the one spot with a view of the large sewer pipe, and whispered his name, placed my foot on the glass and made a mouse wish, or pressed my face to the tube without drinking, just to make them think. All these things helped me remember my timid yet cherished family.

And so it went until our last day with them.