The crows woke her, in the trees outside; they slipped into that place between dreaming and waking. The crows in the trees outside her window flew into the thrift shop. A whole murder of them landing on the clothes, making a racket in the fluttering dresses. Her recurring dream: finding a small vintage shop set in the side of a decaying building; rows and rows of old clothes to get lost in. She was trying on a blue wool coat, a Pendleton or maybe a London Fog, perfect for walking in the fall, by the tall houses on an Amsterdam street. Then the crows; then the coat disappeared and she felt the dream escaping, tried to conjure it back. Crows. She burrows her head under the pillows, stretches her warm legs into the cool, vacant places in the sheets. There’s no use resisting the morning now; she’s awake. Cat nudging her shoulder. Garbage truck outside, accompanying the crows. Isabel scratches the cat’s whiskers and rubs her head with her palm. You’re such a good cat, she says. And then she says it again, such a good cat, because she tends to say things twice to animals.
