It began in small ways, in the extra gleam she gave to the finish of her hair in the morning, her ever-more assiduous manicures, how she ran her tongue around her nails, pulling out any little bits of dirt with her teeth when no one was looking. She’d grow more adept at this in time; the art of patience was one she was still acquiring—how to resist the urge to act impulsively and sit out situations until they tilted, ever so subtly, in her favour. It was already helping her get through the days in the office—the heavy odour of humanity despite their deodorants and perfumes, their oppressive proximity, and the way they colonised space, crowding the air with chatter. She drew herself into herself and stayed as immobile and unblinking as she could, grateful they’d moved her desk to the corner behind the plant where she could sit largely ignored except by her boss who depended on her more than he cared to admit for her extraordinary flair with statistics. But it wasn’t until she’d cleaned herself thoroughly and lay curled up at night, bowl of milk beside her and hands tucked under her ankles that she really began to come to herself, feeling the rise and fall of her chest in the dark and, if she listened closely, what she was sure were the beginnings of a purr.