“I found him,” I say. “Just after Christmas. I was out walking because I’d eaten my own bodyweight in roast potatoes and felt morally obliged to move. Someone had dumped a box near Hadrian’s Wall. Literally just left it there.”
Tom’s expression shifts. Not amused now. Interested.
“It was a cold day,” I continue. “He was barely moving. If I’d been ten minutes later, he’d have been dead.”
Tom looks back at the tank.
“So you… took him home.”
“Yes.”
“Just like that.”
“I took him to an emergency vet,” I say. “Then I took him home. And now he lives here. And before you say it, no, I did not plan any of this.”
There’s a pause.
“You show a lot of care,” Tom says quietly. “For a… lizard.”
I narrow my eyes. “Stop calling him that.”
“He is a lizard.”
“He’s a gecko.”
“You’re saying it like that’s better.”
“Itisbetter.”
“You’re very defensive about this.”
“Because you’re saying ‘lizard’ like it’s an insult.”
Tom gestures vaguely at the tank. “Have you considered what he eats.”
“He eats normal things.”
“That feels unlikely.”
“He’s not disgusting.”
“I didn’t say disgusting,” Tom says. “I implied it. Because what is it that Hadrian eats?"
I hesitate.
“Bugs,” I say.
“See!”
“Mealworms,” I add quickly. “Which are very clean. And nutritious.”
Tom’s mouth tightens. “They really are not. Anything else?”
“…Occasionally cockroaches.”
He closes his eyes.
“I rest my case.”
