Floyd Perrone was lonely.

The loneliness surpassed anything he’d felt in the past, much less anything he would have imagined a year ago. He had never known that adulthood could be so utterly, crushingly lonely. Some days, it felt as if he was the only human left on earth, even if he was surrounded by other people.

When he had first gone off to college, he’d called his mother every single day. But as the years passed, and he became more and more involved in his work, the calls had dwindled to weekly, then monthly, and now he couldn’t remember the last time they’d talked. Was it in September? In fact, when was the last time he’d spoken to anyone other than his co-workers? He’d never been good at making - or rather keeping - friends, so his social interactions were strictly limited to work and the occasional neighborhood barbeque. It seemed as if he spoke more to the cashier at Walmart than to his own family.

If only he didn’t push people away. Then he might have friends, he might talk to his mother, and Ellie might have stayed around. Floyd didn’t know what to do about his situation. He’d always considered himself a highly intelligent man, but in social situations, he was helpless. He wished that he could have had a PhD in friendship instead of nuclear physics. And he was smart. He should be able to figure this out.

And so the answer seemed blindingly obvious when it finally came to him. He’d seen the kids across the street gleefully running around with their dog, and his mother had Frikums the cat (although he wasn’t entirely sure that relationship was a good reference). Yes, a pet was exactly what he needed. You simply fed them, occasionally scratched them behind the ears, and you had a friend for life! Ellie had been allergic, so they’d never gotten one. But now she was gone... Having a pet seemed like one of the easiest relationships he could imagine, so with a heart lighter than it had been in months, Floyd went to the local animal shelter.

The woman sitting at the front desk had him wait for a few minutes while she finished her phone call - which seemed to be about somebody named Cindy and her endless string of boyfriends - and then had him fill out several forms about his living situation, experience with animals, and family life. She finally led Floyd back into the ammonia-scented depths of the shelter. They passed glassed-in rooms full of cats, and Floyd heard faint barking in the distance.

“So whatcha looking for?” the woman asked. “We’ve got all kinds of critters. Cats, dogs, bunnies, birds, and two ferrets, but they’re a pair of little…” she trailed off. “Well, anyway, we’ve got a variety.”

Floyd shrugged. “I don’t really have a preference for the kind of animal. I just want a companion.”

“Well, I’ll help you find the right one. You a cat person or a dog person?” Floyd didn’t answer. He was standing beside a wire cage, staring at the animal within. Something about it drew him in, and he couldn’t seem to stop looking at it.

“Hello?” the woman asked. Floyd reached his hand up and pressed it against the cage. The woman shrugged. “I guess you’re a bunny person.”

Thirty minutes later, Floyd walked out of the shelter with one small wire cage that contained one rabbit. He kept glancing down at it while he drove as if to make sure that it was still there. He didn’t exactly know what it was about the rabbit, but he felt as though he had to keep looking at it or else it would disappear. Could you have an animal soul mate? He hadn’t been this excited since Ellie had first moved in with him, and he hadn’t felt this happy in a long, long time. He pulled into his driveway and carried the rabbit inside. The woman at the shelter had told him that her name was Akuma, and that she’d been brought to the shelter after her previous owner had died. She was excruciatingly thin and almost entirely white, with long ears and two black spots on her back like two drops of ink on a blank paper.

She was beautiful.

Over the next few days, Floyd developed a new schedule. He would wake up early and spend an hour or two with Akuma, brushing her, picking tangles out of her long fur, and talking to her in low tones. He would try to coax some food into her, although she hardly ate anything. Then he would hastily eat breakfast and go to work. Throughout the day, he almost continuously thought about her, worried if she was okay, and imagined all the horrible things that could happen to her while she was left alone. He’d clock out ten minutes early and race home where she would be waiting for him. He’d spend the evening talking to her, getting her opinion on his work problems (he was convinced that she understood nuclear fusion better than his boss), and telling her about his day. She didn’t really answer but he felt sure that she understood him. How could she not understand him when he could see the intelligence in her eyes?