“Hello?” she says, derailed.

“Don’t worry!” hiccups the man. His voice is deeper than his giggle: almost a baritone, with the occasional squeak. “It’s not one of his!”

“His?” Mina wonders if she should call the police. For a detective? “His what?”

“His meaner things. His rat. His bat. His owl, moth, fox, wolf. I caught this one myself, downstairs, I only brought it for a snack in case I had to wait which I did, you see?”

Mina tries to determine whether it’s anti-feminist to faint now.

“If you’re waiting too,” he says reasonably, “the line starts behind me.”