Transplant

Today was different.

The sun rose early and set late due to the changing seasons. Everyone was thrilled about the change, except for the girls in apartment two on 1346 Cole Street in San Francisco. Three girls paid $1,000 each for their space, but rarely stepped foot in it because of the rat.

This thrilled the rat. He finally earned his privacy. He deserved to roam the apartment without dealing with the incessant screaming and stench of bleach that made it difficult for him to maneuver. Having a thousand square feet to himself was empowering.

Before he settled into the apartment, the rat lived a couple of blocks north at UCSF. He was not one of those rats that spent their time scavenging in the cafeteria or fields. He was a lab rat. He was tested and challenged by his superiors, but he left as an educated rat. After living through various trials, he took all the maze skills he acquired and broke loose. Most of the rats in his cohort tried to escape, but few were successful. When he was found by his nest, he was told that he was one of the lucky ones. He knew that wasn't true. He saw the hundreds of other rats at the institution.

After sunset when the temperature dropped, the rat would wake from his slumber. He would shake his body and every strand of his dark hair stood up straight as he took in his surroundings, checking if there was another creature he needed to attack. His urine and feces deterred other vermin from encroaching on his nest's space.

Today, two of the girls decided to be home and one of them dared to bring a guest with her. The apartment was full and that was unapproved. Their footsteps and the smell of vinegar and soy sauce woke him up. Livid, he scurried up the garage pipe that led to the hole above the refrigerator. He leaped. He landed with his nails skittering across the slick plastic on the top of the machine. He slid for a second before adjusting his footing.

There was noise in the next room. A rustling.

"Did you hear that?" one of the girls asked. "I need to find a new fucking place."

The rat's whiskers twitched. He slid to the end closest to the kitchen counter, so he could take what they had. The rat climbed over dishes and pressed his newly fat body against the wall to keep himself from falling. His nose led him towards the meal the girls foolishly cooked earlier that evening. It was adobo pork. The scent of the pungent Filipino dish had traveled throughout the entire building. The combination of vinegar, salt, and pork permeated the walls. It was as if the girls were begging him to take it, tell his family, and have their share.

A spoon collided with the sink. The sound of metal on metal echoed in the rat's ears and put a chill into the girls' hearts. There was no denying his presence. He knew the girls were too afraid to confront him. They would give him his space, hoping he wouldn't encroach on theirs. It was as if they'd signed a sublet agreement between the two parties that established the kitchen as the rat's domain. That was fine for a while, but sometimes the smell of food would come from the girls' room. Today was one of those days.

Even though the rat had more than enough pork to satiate himself for months, he was not satisfied with the offering. He wanted more. No. He needed more. No. He deserved more. It was his right. After all, his ancestors immigrated here a century before these girls' families spoke English. His ancestors were introduced to San Francisco when Norwegians immigrated to America by boat in the early 20^th century, unintentionally transplanting their rats who stowed away in crates. These rats were large with thick gray fur and teeth so strong they gnawed through walls. They were determined and resilient which was why they survived. They...