Jill Gaiman knew everything about goldfish because it was her mission in life to own one. She spent her thirteenth birthday in the backyard, plucking acceptable rocks from the overgrown grass for use in a fish bowl that she didn’t have. As she collected rocks, her parents watched television in the living room.

Pluck, pluck, pluck. She searched mostly for pebbles. She dusted the dried mud off them and, using her T-shirt as a makeshift basket, carried them through the kitchen and toward the living room – an odd name for that room, Jill thought, since her parents did nothing that resembled living.

Her father, a portly retired machinist, spent so much time in his leather recliner that when Jill sat in it, she sunk low enough to feel the spring heads. Her mother, a housewife, preferred the corner of the couch, where her presence had rubbed away much of the paisley on the armrest. The room smelled musty, like shelves of old books rotted in its walls, even though neither of them, to Jill’s knowledge, had ever read anything.

Jill cradled her rocks and asked if one of them would take her to the pet shop in the center of town so she could get a goldfish.

“No,” her father said. He didn’t look away from the television.

“Why not?” Jill asked.

“Pets take a lot of responsibility.” He wheezed when he spoke.

“They’re just fish,” Jill said.

“What’s the point then?” her mother said.

“They’re interesting.”

“They don’t do anything,” her father said. “If they don’t do anything, how can they be interesting?”

“Hm,” Jill said, and then she sought sanctuary in her bedroom, where small plants soaked sunlight from the ledge, every light was turned on, and soft music played from the classical station.

*

Because her parents had little interest in goldfish, Jill often rode her bicycle to the university so she could fulfill her need to talk about them. Dr. Zok’s office was packed with thick books, but it didn’t smell anything like the Dying Room. The giant window in his first-floor office was kept open so breezes from outside could run through; in the spring, it smelled like azaleas and freshly cut grass.

Dr. Zok preferred to talk about the viper fish, while Jill tried to steer the conversation back to Carassius auratus where it belonged.

“Do you realize the viper fish lives a mile below?” Zok said on a recent afternoon. He tapped his thick mustache and narrowed his eyes at Jill, gauging her interest.

“Did you know that goldfish are unlikely to survive in the wild because their vibrant colors attract predators?” Jill said.

Zok shook his head disapprovingly. “Goldfish are fairly boring, compared to other creatures of the sea. Look at this.” He pulled a hefty book from a shelf next to his desk. Its title was Marine Life: A Comprehensive Study. It was the largest book Jill had ever seen. He set it on the corner of his desk, next to Jill’s chair. “See all the underwater creatures you can learn about? All the ones you can read about?” He opened the book and flipped its pages. “See? See?”

Jill regarded the pictures carefully and with interest, but soon leaned back in her chair and said, “When I get my goldfish, I will name him Finn.”

Zok sighed.

*

Mr. Petrakis, the pet shop owner, knew that when the bell over the door jingled at four o’clock on Thursdays, Jill Gaiman would come in to look at fish tank #3. It was the same routine: She’d park her bike outside the door, he would tell her to keep an eye on it so it wouldn’t be stolen, she would say no one wants that old thing, and then she would walk to the tank. Never the puppies. Always the goldfish. Sometimes Mr. Petrakis would offer her bottled water from the refrigerator at the back of the store because he could tell she’d been on her bike for a long time.

“Hello, Jill,” he said from behind the kennels, because he cleaned them out every Thursday afternoon. Both had predictable Thursdays.

“Hello, Mr. Petrakis,” Jill replied, stationing herself in front of the tank. Mr. Petrakis had fifteen fish tanks, but Jill was only concerned with fish tank #3, even though the other twelve held more colorful varieties of fish, not unlike those Jill had seen in Marine Life: A Comprehensive Study.

“You better keep an eye on that bike,” said Mr. Petrakis.

“No one wants that old thing.”

Sometimes he asked if she was going to buy a fish, and she always said no, because her parents believed pets to be a big responsibility, even fish. They must be fine parents to have such a well-behaved girl, Mr. Petrakis would think to himself, and his mind inevitably wandered to his own granddaughter, who was Jill’s age but cared more about boys than fish. He wished his son and daughter-in-law would take a few lessons from the Gaimans, because Jill always answered politely and seemed to be satisfied simply by gazing in fish tanks. Mr. Petrakis didn’t know the Gaimans, but he figured they must be good people.

Today, Mr. Petrakis rinsed his hands in the sink and walked up to Jill as she looked in tank three.

“Which one do you like?” he asked.

She pointed to one of the busybodies swimming contentedly inside. It was bright orange, with a frayed tail.

“That one is a little higher-end. Costs fifteen dollars, but if you want it, I’ll give you a dollar off,” Mr. Petrakis said. “You’ve been a loyal customer. You deserve it.”

“You’ll give me a discount?”

“Sure, of course. Ask your folks. Maybe it’ll convince them.”

“Okay,” she said. She watched the fish for a while longer, then looked up at him and gave a polite “thank you” before returning to her bicycle.

Because Mr. Petrakis was always cleaning the kennels when Jill came in, he’d never seen her up close. Something about her eyes didn’t seem fitting for a young girl. He thought about his boy-crazy granddaughter again and pictured what her eyes looked like, then realized what it was that didn’t fit: Even though Jill was only thirteen, she had tired eyes, like someone who had witnessed death and taken a piece for herself.

He watched her ride off on her bicycle. When she was out of sight, he returned to the kennels.

*

Jill told her parents that Mr. Petrakis was willing to give her one dollar off the goldfish, but they came up with new reasons not to get one. They couldn’t afford it. It was too much responsibility. Fish are pointless pets. Pets are too much trouble.

Jill suspected the real reason they didn’t want to bring her to the pet shop is because they didn’t want to get off the couch.

In her sanctuary, Jill took one of the rocks from the windowsill and rubbed it between her hands, thinking. She would have to buy the fish with her own money.

“I’ll stash away my lunch allowance,” she said aloud, to her rock. She closed her eyes and did the math in her head. It would take eight school days to raise fourteen dollars for Finn.

This wasn’t a big sacrifice. Lunch time was when the other kids broke off into groups and sat at exclusive tables. There were tables for thespians, artists, straight-A students, slackers, band members, cheerleaders, athletes. There were no tables for girls who loved goldfish.

*

Three days before Finn was to be purchased, Jill rode her bicycle to see Dr. Zok. She wanted to tell him that she was finally getting her goldfish. She also wanted to let him know that she was interested in becoming a marine biologist when she grew up.

“Depending on how well Finn survives in his habitat,” she said, sitting in her usual chair next to Zok’s desk.

“I’m sure Finn will do very well, assuming the water is the proper temperature and you don’t overfeed him. Although I’m sure you know all about adequate care of goldfish,” Zok said, winking. His mood was perkier than usual, probably because he was pleased that she wanted to follow his footsteps in marine biology.

“Yes, sir. I’ve read all about it.”

“I have something here that might help you.” Zok walked over to an old filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and rummaged in an unseen pile, finally pulling out a small tube. At first, Jill thought he was giving her eye drops, but when she took it, she discovered that it was For Use in Fish Tanks Only.

“That will help neutralize the water,” Zok explained. “After you’ve got the water in your tank, put two drops of that inside. It’ll make it safe for the fish.”

“I was going to let the water sit for twenty-four hours to neutralize it.”

“You can do that too, certainly. But as you clean out your tank on a regular basis, those drops should come in handy.”

“I don’t have a tank,” Jill said. “I was going to use a fishbowl.”

The truth was, she didn’t even have a fish bowl. She’d found an old glass serving bowl under the kitchen sink a few days before and decided that it would make an adequate habitat for Finn. After unearthing it from piles of plastic grocery bags, she washed away every speck of dust, held it to the sunlight to admire its new shine, and went about placing the rocks at the bottom. It sat near her window now, uninhabited.

“Tanks are much better for fish to thrive,” Zok said. “Fish bowls can limit their lifespan.”

“I know, but I can’t afford a tank.”

“Don’t worry about it right now, then,” Zok said. “Your fish will do well in the bowl, at least temporarily. Make sure you keep it clean, though. If you don’t maintain the fish bowl, it could affect the fish’s vision and behavior. But, as an aspiring marine biologist and goldfish expert, you know all this already.”

Jill nodded, because he was right. She did know this already.

*

When the bell jangled at four o’clock, Mr. Petrakis was behind the kennels again. Jill walked in and went to fish tank #3. Mr. Petrakis had been indoors all day and had forgotten that the heat index was to reach 100 degrees, but when he saw the ring of sweat around Jill’s collar, he remembered.

“I think it’s a good day for cold water,” he said, and he walked to the counter to get a water bottle for Jill.

She took it, took a long swig, and thanked him.

“You better keep an eye on that bike,” Mr. Petrakis said.

“No one wants that old thing.”

“So, did you convince your folks to get you a goldfish?”

The expression on Jill’s face was hard to read. She opened her mouth to speak, then furrowed her eyebrows together and looked down at the water bottle. It was as if she was working arithmetic in her head and the equation involved her water bottle and his question.

“Oh … well …” she said, and she looked around at the counters of fish equipment lined up next to the tanks. “Actually, they said I could get a fish, but I had to get a tank first.”

“Great!” Mr. Petrakis clapped his hands together, finding himself genuinely happy that young Jill would finally be able to purchase her goldfish.

“I’d like the best tank I can get for fifteen dollars,” she said.

Mr. Petrakis showed her a 10-gallon tank with a silicone-sealed top frame. It was 20 inches long and 10 inches high. It cost fourteen dollars.

“Definitely the best you can get,” he said, as they stood side-by-side, looking at it.

Jill examined every corner of the tank. “Better than a fish bowl.”

“Oh, yes. It is certainly better than a fish bowl. Fish need a tank if they’re going to live a long, healthy life,” Mr. Petrakis said. “Tell you what. Since you’re such a great customer, I’ll throw in a few extras. Plant life and whatnot.”

He picked up some plastic items for the fish tank – a broken pirate ship, hiding rock, and small tree. Altogether they cost less than ten dollars.

“Thanks, Mr. Petrakis,” Jill said.

He looked back at her bicycle. “How’re you gonna get all this home on your bike? You’ll need your folks to pick you up.”

“Oh, I’ll manage. Trust me.”

“Alright, then. Let’s get these things to the register.”

Jill followed Mr. Petrakis to the register. As he rang up her items – voiding out the ones he’d included for free – Jill shifted her weight from one foot to the other and nibbled her bottom lip. After she dug into her pocket and gave him the money, she rubbed the back of her neck and looped her hand into the bag that held Finn’s future home.

“You okay?” Mr. Petrakis said. “We got a bathroom in the back, if you need it.”

“Actually …” she glanced back at the kennels. “I was wondering if you could bring the puppies out. I don’t see them in their kennels.”

“You finally got a goldfish and you’re already thinking about a puppy, eh?” he said, smiling. “When I’m cleaning out the kennels, I put the puppies in a cage in the break room. We got beagles right now. Cute as can be. You want me to bring one out? I don’t usually let customers hold the puppies unless they’re gonna buy ’em, but I figure you’ve earned it.”

Jill took a swig of her water and smiled gently. “That would be great, Mr. Petrakis. I love beagles.”

As he moved away from behind the counter, Jill walked back to fish tank #3. Her usual spot, Mr. Petrakis thought. She looked at her water bottle again – doing that mental arithmetic – as he disappeared into the break room.

The beagles hopped up on all fours when they saw him. Their tails wagged furiously as they laid their paws on the cage links. There were four puppies falling over one another to get his attention.

“Hey, fellas,” Mr. Petrakis said. He unlinked the cage door slowly and caught the runt as it scurried out. It wiggled and whined in the crook of his arm as he re-latched the cage and stood up.

“Could you bring all of them, Mr. Petrakis?” Jill called from the floor.

Mr. Petrakis almost said no, it was too much trouble, but instead he sighed, knelt down, unlatched the cage again, and put the runt back in the cage. Two of them tried to escape once the latch was unhooked, but he gently shoved their noses back inside and got the cage closed. His knees popped as he stood back up and picked up the crate by its handle. The puppies were always heavier than he remembered them. It took some effort on his part to lumber back to the storefront with the weight of the crate and the beagles, but he made it.

Jill was standing in a small puddle next to fish tank #3.

“Spilled my water,” she said, tapping her pocket, where she’d shoved her plastic bottle. It bulged out like a strange growth against her young, bony hip. “Sorry, Mr. Petrakis. Would you like me to help clean it up?”

“No, no, don’t worry about it.” He laid the crate at Jill’s feet. “There they are. Think your folks will go for one of these?”

Seeing Jill, the puppies stood on their tiny hind legs and pawed at the crate. They yelped and fell on top of one another clumsily. Jill bent over, stuck her index finger inside, said hello, then straightened up and said she’d better get back home.

“Poor beagles. All that trouble to get your attention and you barely say hello,” Mr. Petrakis said.

“I guess I don’t like dogs as much as I thought.”

“Not like goldfish, eh?”

“No, not like goldfish,” she agreed.

“Good luck setting up the tank,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you soon so you can take your little tiger home.” He tapped the glass of fish tank #3, not noticing that his Easy Catch fish net was sitting at the bottom, in the rocks.

Jill thanked him again, then mounted her bike with the bulky bag of fish equipment slipped on one of the handlebars. Mr. Petrakis was certain she wouldn’t make it out of the parking lot, but she did – she wobbled and shook on her bicycle until she was out of sight, with the bulging growth of the water bottle still rising up from her pocket.

*

Jill watched the drops of Dr. Zok’s neutralizer spread across the clear water in her new fish tank. She’d already set up the sunken pirate ship, rocks from the backyard, and plastic trees Mr. Petrakis had given her. The instructions on the neutralizer said to wait at least three minutes before introducing the fish to their new environment, so she counted to one-hundred-eighty – one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, and so on – before she picked up the water bottle on her desk.

She watched through the glass as the orange fish with the frayed tail glided its belly across the water bottle and landed gently into the neutralized water. It swam east and west, examining its new home. It swam down to the pirate ship and across the green plastic tree. It swam to the top of the water and down to the bottom. The orange fish was small compared to its enormous habitat. There was plenty of room to thrive.

Jill turned on the light above the tank. The surface of the water sparkled.

“Hello, Finn,” she said.