There are noises—soft, little noises—coming from close behind her back: the rustle of a bedsheet, a low creak of the floor, a faint whisper suggesting movement, the brushing of skin against skin. She waits a moment, then someone quietly exhales, as though relieved. Tikki knows who it is, for she recognizes his trace instantly. It is the unmistakable scent of the joyboy she sometimes buys for an evening’s entertainment. Now it is his bare feet brushing the carpet. Tikki follows his progress with her ears: down the length of her back, past her tail, out beyond the foot of the mattress that serves her as a bed. The joyboy’s smell is one of excitement, agitation, mingled with anxiety. This arouses her curiosity. Discreetly, she lifts her head and takes a look.