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Springtime, and the cops are in heat again. Alexis tries to stay indoors. They’re always out there clinging to telephone poles, multifaceted aviators glinting, parting their mustaches to jam probosces into the trash bins she’s had to bungee shut. She steps around the ones she finds headless, still locked in coitus.

They bought a zapper for the yard, and it makes a show after sundown, but it doesn’t seem to reduce their numbers. Another blue-white flash, another mating siren-squawk cut short. Alexis collects fragile husks of the badges they’ve long since shed, and wrinkles her nose at the smell.