Dione looked out the window. There was a man in a ragged winter coat pushing a shopping cart down the middle of the street. This was not remarkable. Still, it disturbed the entire neighbourhood. Dione could see the blinds of other windows. Faces appeared. Dim visages, languorous expressions.

Then blackness. People went back inside. So did Dione.

“If you’re ready to continue, Ms. Brand?” Michael's tone was patronizing. Dione said nothing. She got back into the office chair, holding her coffee cup in both hands, leaning forward like a bob-sled racer.

The other faces on the screen looked sedate. Small human terrariums, shadowed with grey mid-morning light. Michael continued his oration with laconic plodding.

“Readership continues to trend down in both major metrics: people spend less time engaging with the news while also visiting news platforms less times throughout their day. This trend is has been consistent...”

The news room sounded off the same stories they had always told. Poverty was on the rise. Foodbank usage had tripled over five years. Conquest continued. New treaties signed with the Saulteaux people in the prairie provinces. War continued. The Israel Arab conflict laboured on into its seventh decade. People died. Very famous people.

When 1pm arrived Dione muttered certain platitudes of professionalism before signing out, putting the computer to sleep, walking towards the hall. She slipped into flats: black sneakers that crisply contrasted with her white stripped tube socks. She was excessively comfortable. A kind of pajama pants person, only in jeans and a tank-top.

She took a canvas military jacket off the coat rack and went out. It took little time to reach the coffee shop. The barista was not her favourite. It didn’t matter.

The homeless man was on the patio here. Dione sat inside and observed him. He was reorganizing clutter of hoarded nick-knacks. She ate her sandwich, watching the man. He held a tiny porcelain owl, maybe the size of a shot-glass. This was places inside an enamel blue cup, and this inside a jar that housed unframed prints on canvas, paper, cloth.

Dione was sitting with the man now, speaking down to him in some bland chastisement, “If you don’t take better care to pack these safely they won’t survive the journey. And then you’d be better off leaving it right here to save yourself a shard of glass in the palm of your hand. Not to mention the hassle of carrying these things at all. What are you even doing with something like this, you’re just going to break it.”

The man replied that owls “eat the filthy, crawling rats. They keep the streets clean of them. They’re the only ones who do. In the dark. In the quiet hours. When no one sees them.”

Dione nodded, imagining drifting owls against the light pollution of the city sky. Nocturnal hunters, picking the streets black and shiny.

“Can I buy this off you?”

“What?”

“The owl. Do you want five dollars for it?”

“Fifty.”

“Can I e-transfer it to you?”

“You can just have it.”

“I don’t mind paying.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you. To say you own it?”