At first light the bowl on the dresser lined up its pebbles like a tiny ticket window. Each fish waited its turn, tapped a stone with a fin, and only then glanced at the geranium, which had the last say on whether the water was ready for a lap.
We asked at the kiosk. "They never cut the queue," said a man with a paper of seeds. "The gold one nods to the plant, the speckled one nods to the plant, and the plant nods back as if it has been practicing all night on the sill."
A neighbor rumor claimed the tickets were a way to keep the water from getting dizzy. The dresser notebook is kinder: one loop is plenty if you have already said good morning twice.
The next morning a child from downstairs stood on a stool with a blank slip of paper, just in case a fish needed a spare ticket. The geranium leaned a leaf toward the glass, and the first circle of the day began only after that.