Space-time misses the solid-matter-swing and, in the middle of rush hour, turns everyone across the county into rabbits. Everyone except me and a custodian called Abe. 

The chaotic climax leaves a gruesome clean-up, and we tenaciously collect the ‘carcasses’—Abe reminds me multiple times that only humans become corpses— and drop them into brown paper bags. Once the cotton-tailed remains have been cleared away, Abe skips town and rides off into the sunset with his mop and a suitcase full of jumpsuits. 

I take up an illustrious new career as the city’s only bus driver. Every day I transport neighbors from their houses and apartment complexes to the park.

Mayor Clemens, now a handsome tawny buck, assures me that the town will come together. We will rebuild, and I’ll have an honorific statue installed at miniature City Hall to commemorate my noble servitude. 

“Once you’ve got your hands back?”

“Maybe. We’ll find a way.”

“Rabbits carving stone?”

“We’ll use wood or something.”

During a drop-off I admire the ingenuity of park bench hutches and the reimagining of the playground as a business district.

“Looking good,” I shout to Clemens from my bus. “Can’t wait to see my statue.” 

I’m pushy like that.

“Coming along, coming along,” he replies, and tunnels underground.

#

After nearly two hundred runs, the last batch of residents hop off to find their new homes. I park the bus and follow the immaculately landscaped footpath towards the New City Hall.

Behold! 

Standing before me in the plaza is a maple-wood statue of Abe, stoically immortalized with a baby rabbit cradled in his arm and a satchel—likely full of carcasses— slung on his back. The hero’s eyes scan the horizon for dogs and hawks and foxes. Mayor Clemens tugs my shoe and thumps his foot for attention.

“I hate to do this—” His beady eyes keep a wide berth from mine, focusing on a pair of does near The Slide, the hippest bar in town.  “—we voted to limit the occupancy of any household in Rabbiton to six citizens, maximum.” 

I silently assume I’m more than six thick.

“Your height puts you at around ten rabbits. You understand that if we make one exception we’ll have to bend and bend until we break.” 

I understand. I say goodbye to all of the townsrabbits, salute the statue of Good Abe, and climb into my bus. 

It takes a little while to get my life back on track, but after obtaining proper licensing I get a job two counties over, driving routes for the middle school. Turns out Abe’s a janitor in the same district. Small world.

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Mar Ovsheid is a spoilsport who tragically dropped—and lost—her sea monkeys in the carpet as a kid. Her work has been featured in Roi Fainéant Press, Los Suelos, Mulberry Literary, and oranges journal, among others. Mar works as a housekeeper and is visible at @mar_ovsheid on Instagram.