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Still, I cannot answer the question of whether or not he has sentience. Does he feel pain? Does he have thoughts? Does he want for anything? Or is he working on some instinct driven by the virus? If so, is he even there, or is he a fleshy vessel for the zabies? Should the question really be, how can one tell if a virus is sentient?

18

Lazlo

Despite the strangeness of the situation and our lives, Nova and I managed to fall into a kind of domesticity. In the mornings, I made breakfast while she tended to the animals. When she worked in the garden, preparing the land for future planting, I did the laundry.

Her trust in me seemed to be growing because she put me in charge of feeding the wolfdogs. I diced up raw deer meat and liver and tossed it with pumpkin from a mason jar Nova had canned in the fall and eggs I’d hardboiled in the morning.

Leaving me in charge of anything to do with Frost and Sable had to be the highest compliment she could give, because it had become very apparent that the dogs meant the world to her.

While Nova still remained cold and rather aloof with me, I had seen a much warmer side emerge in her interactions with the animals. In the evenings, when we sat in the living room, reading and listening to music, Sable would always cuddle up beside her on the couch, and Nova’s face would light up every time, as if it were some rare or amazing experience.

We still didn’t speak much. Over breakfast, we exchanged basic pleasantries, but Nova never tolerated much more than that.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked when we sat around the kitchen table.

“As well as I ever do.”

“What about breakfast?” I pressed as she stabbed at her food with a fork. “I added some dill to the eggs and potatoes.”

“Interesting choice. They were fine.”

“Interesting good or interesting bad?”

She lifted her eyes enough to cast me a glare. “Interesting fine.”

“What would you like me to do today?” I asked.

“The usual. Mop the floor if you can stand that long. Sable tracked in some mud last night.” She motioned to the big muddy prints that darkened the floor.

“Sure, I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I ask.”

After we lapsed back into another silence, I asked, “What do you want for supper tonight?”

“We can finish off the venison with the canned pumpkin.”

“Sounds good. We’ll have dinner at dusk then?”

“The same as every night,” she said, growing annoyed.

“Do you want to do anything different?” I asked.

Nova leaned back in her chair and eyed me across the table. “Like what? Take a drive into the city and have dinner and see a show?”

“No, but something more basic. Maybe we play cards. Or talk,” I suggested.

She shook her head like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “What is there to talk about?”

“Did you watch a lot of movies?”

“You want to talk to me about my movie preferences?” she asked with a dubious laugh.

“I want to talk to you about anything,” I said, letting my frustration sharpen my words. “We’ve been roommates for a few weeks, and we’ve got even longer to go. I figured it wouldn’t hurt for the two of us to get to know each other.”

“It might,” she countered evenly.