“Wake up.” When Crazy Me rests a hand on my forehead, it jolts me from sleep. “It’s raccoons.”
“What?” I shiver out of a very pleasant dream of licking frosting off Amisha’s nose. “Get!” I flail at him in the darkness and thump his shoulder.
“Raccoons! With their masks and their tiny black hands and their fleas. Rooting through our garbage.”
“What time is it?” I lift my head off the pillow to look at the clock. “Great, it’s four twenty-three.”
“Do you know how many raccoons there are?” he asks. As usual, my irritation bounces off him. “They’re everywhere, like furry cockroaches. I have no doubt whatsoever. The next pandemic will be huge—raccoon flu.”