Two goldfish are in danger. I need to find a home for them right away. They are hanging in the air in front of the bathroom mirror, the two of them suspended from one line. They eye me frantically.
I take them down and put them in a mug. It has toothpaste in it! The water is getting cloudy. I run outside to my parent's yard, where there is a new garden consisting entirely of plants still in their plastic containers, arranged in neat rows on the grass. A few empty containers lie to the side. I pick up one after another, filling them with water and slopping the goldfish into them. Each one has a fatal flaw—cracked, or muddy, or full of holes.
I'm amazed that the fish aren't dead from the shock of being dumped into cold water over and over again—you're really supposed to ease them into it gradually. Why isn't there a fishbowl? I find one, but it's far too small—the goldfish have already grown out of it. It gets smaller as I look at it.
I search the area around the yard, and try still more containers. Nothing works.
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