The possum was not well. I noticed her (I do not believe in calling animals 'it' and, besides, gender is but a cultural construct) when I was walking home through the underground carpark in Melbourne Uni, my favourite place because it smells like cold concrete and during the day I like to think it's where the cars go to nest. The possum was a ball of fur, her head between her legs, crouched beneath a parked car. I gingerly touched her back but she didn't move.

'What is it?' Asked one of the maintenance guys, getting out of his car.

'A possum. I don't think she should be here.'

'It looks pretty sick. Are you good with animals?'

'Not so much I'd want to get a parasite.' I was lying. All I wanted to do was pick her up and carry her outside and put her somewhere comfortable and car-free, a place where she could leave this vale of tears in peace, but for some reason I didn't want to look to enthusiastic. I always do that, ignore cats on the street and dogs tied outside shops when I'm with other people, in case I betray a juvenile eagerness.

'Well, perhaps you can call security.'

'Perhaps.' I went to walk away, but changed my mind. I couldn't just leave her there, it was unfair and undignified. 'Fuck it. I'll wrap her up in my cardigan or something.'

The man shrugged. 'I wish I could help you but I'm a total coward with animals.'

I wrapped my cardigan around my hands and gently, gently nudged the possum around to face us. Her eyes were streaming with something brown and viscous.

'Oh, dear,' I said, queasy. 'A sick possum is one thing, a gooey sick possum is another.'

'I'll call security.' The man left for a little room cut into the carpark wall, humming with fluoro lights.

I wondered, for a moment, if I should stay or go. The possum's head had once again sunk to the ground, her paws covering her eyes. Her body kept sinking forwards then jerking back, as though she was trying to stay awake. I was reminded of the time I saw someone faint in the library foyer. No one noticed except for this guy's friend, who called out with a strangled, too-high voice for an ambulance. Everyone stood around dumbfounded, including me, and I imagine everyone was thinking the same thing. What should I do? Should I do anything? Should I stay here or should I accept that I'm useless and go about my business? Surely someone else knows what to do. Eventually I went upstairs, feeling a prickle of guilt for being so callous.

The maintenance guy came back with a broom and a bucket. 'I'll put it in the office,' he said, 'so she's safe until someone can pick her up.' Together we scooped the possum into the bucket. She hardly seemed to notice; she just wound her tail around the bucket handle, a reflex.

I wished the maintenance man well and went to the library, and now I'm here writing this, and the possum is in a cold bucket breathing her last, and the maintenance man is with her, and I am feeling guilty for being so callous.