This all started when those loose zebras were frolicking across suburban Maryland. It was summer, and it seemed they might live out there for the rest of their lives. We imagined them dodging those who wanted to capture them and grazing on whatever they desired. Dean was on the couch next to me when the updates came through. He was drunk on Natty Lite all summer cheering on the zebras like they were his illegitimate kids he suddenly took an interest in the second they became famous. I was trying to decide if I should stay or go. The faux-leather couch was worn through in places from where Dean’s Chihuahua Yo Quiero nibbled. He was never trained. Dean didn’t know how to train a dog, and it all happened before me. Sometimes it seemed like everything happened before me. That we were frozen on the couch watching zebra updates and the world was out there in the suburban streets of fucking Bowie. Pronounced not like the pop star but like the knife in Dean’s dashboard because guns are too much of a commitment. Knives are easier. Maybe I’m a knife. Settled for this life because my Craigslist roommate constantly cooked bologna on the stovetop. Dean randomly going down on me seemed like the better alternative, and I ignored how he immediately expected me to reciprocate. Holidays passed and we were still on the couch, Dean drinking and me watching in a Santa hat. Yo Quiero nestled on Dean’s lap protectively. Christmas was coming and we were worried about the zebras out in the cold. The news updated us: one died in a snare trap and two were returned home. The strangest part of the story wasn’t that the zebras escaped but that they escaped from some dude’s house not a zoo. Turns out a whole herd of twenty-nine weren’t properly fed or sheltered. Their enclosure had exploitable holes. No wonder those three left. They saw an opening and hoofed and bit and yanked until they could squeeze through. They were smart. I was smart, too, I thought. But there I was, envying the chutzpah of zebras instead of emulating them. I mean, fuck, I wasn’t actually frozen to the couch. I could stand up. Pack my shit. Hell, I could take his Bowie knife and cut my way out like those zebras. Slash his tires so he couldn’t follow. All I had to do was avoid the snare traps and chomp anyone who tried to drag me back.