It was not metaphor, or something Kate could regard as symbolically Kafka-esque, although she did. It was the reality. The brush that burst into flames in the surrounding hills in the dry ovens of summer, the ivy that trailed around the best manicured streets in the flats, choking the stately palms, sucking life from the soft violet-blossomed jacarandas, housed rodent hordes. Unsightly trucks from exterminator companies proliferated on the choicest streets, more visible than the resident Mercedes. Even the best exterminators refused to guarantee that the rats would not come back. Kate knew there were rats in the guest cottage she rented on Burton Way. She could hear them rustling in the night. She was aware they were nocturnal, as ghosts were supposed to be nocturnal. Still she wished there was such a thing as ghosts, so she could open one of her latticed windows, reach out, and only be touched by an icy hand. Sometimes she would turn on the light by the side of her bed, and catch a flash of tail, a rush of fur on the wooden rafters of her cathedral ceiling.
