In the morning I put them back
She mentioned the mouse first. “Mice.” she corrects me, sorry. The shortness of the word emphasises the plurality inherent in its meaning. The ones that she catches, stabs and keeps underneath her bed. I ask if she uses mousetraps. She shakes her head. “I want to feel their little bodies in my hands,” she explains, matter-of-factly, “so stabbing is my favourite.” She tilts her little head, thinking for a minute. Her front teeth make indentations into her bottom lip and her teeth jut out, rat-like. If she was old enough she would have frown lines by now. “Or strangling, if my hands are the only thing I have to hand.” She giggles without using her hand to cover her mouth, leaving her teeth on show. The skin on her lips is flaky and peeling. She doesn't nibble it off. I ask how often she sees mice. How many she’s caught. “And they’re all under your bed!” I can’t help but exclaim when she reveals the number. Oddly, it’s lower than I was expecting....