Goldie was dead, undoubtedly.
She showed up twenty minutes ago with no instructions. My daughter just pushed a cheap plastic bag into my hands and demanded I find a home for her beloved pet before disappearing upstairs.
The solution seemed obvious: ditch the bag for a bowl and fill it with sparkling clean tap water. How was I supposed to know the goldfish only tolerated distilled?
Dealing with a devastated five-year-old would be tough. Dealing with an unhinged ex-wife would be infinitely worse.
Unless…
Unless I could get to that pet store and back. It was only ten minutes away…
The Weekday One Hundred 