He looked completely immobile. I moved the tank. Nothing. I felt all wrong inside. I moved the tank again. He floated tangled up in the plastic plant. I told my daughter that we needed to keep in mind that R. was really, really old. "Do you mean he could die?" I was glad she put it in her own words. "I think he might." I didn't want to reveal this too suddenly. I imagined what we'd do for the funeral. Would I need to touch him? Scoop him out? Flush the entire contents of the tank down the toilet? Would I need to preserve the body as evidence? In the freezer? "Let's feed him," I said. We sprinkled fish food. He didn't move. We stared at it. I was trying to find the right words. I went back the kitchen and washed a couple of plates. "He woke up!" My daughter exclaimed. I sighed so loudly she looked up. "What?"
"I thought that maybe..."
"He was already dead?"
I had to admit it.
"But mama, he was moving his little fins! I knew he was just sleeping!"
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