Page 75 of We Can Stay
“Mew.”
The sound is so faint I almost miss it. My heart stutters to a stop, then kicks into overdrive. I spin in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source. “Cat?”
Another soft mew, barely audible over the drip of water from the eaves.
There—beneath the blue metal post office collection box on the corner. A small, bedraggled shape huddles against the concrete base. Wet fur plastered to her tiny frame, Cat blinks up at me with enormous eyes that seem to take up half her face.
Relief crashes through me like a physical force.
“Hey there, little troublemaker.” I crouch slowly, extending my hand toward her. She watches me with that particular feline wariness, as if calculating whether I’m trustworthy or if she should make a run for it.
“Come on, sweetheart. Your mom’s worried sick.”
Cat’s whiskers twitch. She glances left, then right, surveying the empty street like a tiny general planning her next move. Finally, apparently deciding the coast is clear, she creeps out from her makeshift shelter.
I scoop her up before she can change her mind, tucking her inside my windbreaker where it’s warm and dry. She’s soaked through, shivering against my chest.
“Never do that again,” I murmur, rubbing her damp head through the jacket. “You scared us half to death.”
Pulling out my phone one-handed, I manage to snap a photo of Cat’s face poking out of my jacket—ears flattened, expression thoroughly unimpressed with her adventure. I send it to Flick with a simple message:
Found her. She’s safe.
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. Is she okay??? Are YOU okay???
All good. Heading back to your place now to get her dry and fed.
The walk back to Flick’s condo feels shorter somehow, my steps lighter despite the soggy boots. Cat burrows deeper into my jacket, her tiny purr vibrating against my ribs. The morning's disasters waiting at the clinic—the surgery schedule I’m supposed to oversee, the staff meeting about the new intake protocols—fade into background static.
None of it matters. Not compared to the warm weight of this kitten or the joy that will bloom across Flick’s face when she can hold her again.
Back at the condo, I towel Cat dry while she complains about the indignity of it all. Her meows are half-hearted protests though—she’s too exhausted to put up much fight. Once she’s reasonably fluffy again, I set out fresh food and water, then do a thorough check of every window in the place. No more great escapes for Cat.
The kitten munches on her breakfast like she hasn’t eaten in days rather than hours, then promptly passes out on her favoritespot on the couch—right on top of Flick’s current knitting project.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I tell her sleeping form.
Checking the time, I realize it’s barely past eleven. Flick won’t be home from her shift at Knit Happens until after six. Which gives me time to actually use this unexpected day off.
The grocery store is my first stop. Flick’s refrigerator isn’t empty, but it won’t hurt to stock up on a few things. Plus, I want to make enchiladas for dinner.
By the time I return to the condo, arms full of grocery bags, Cat has relocated to the sunny spot by the sliding glass door. She cracks one eye open to ensure I’m not a threat to her nap, then promptly ignores me.
The familiar rhythm of cooking soothes something in me I didn’t realize needed soothing. Dicing onions, browning meat, layering tortillas and cheese and sauce. My hands remember the motions even after years of neglect. There’s something deeply satisfying about creating something meant to nourish someone else.
The condo fills with the scent of cumin and chili powder. I find myself humming—actually humming—as I clean up the kitchen. When did I become this person? This guy who takes days off work to search for cats and make elaborate dinners?
The answer comes immediately: when Flick walked into my clinic with a kitten and called me Dr. Hot.
The enchiladas are ten minutes from done when I hear Flick’s key in the lock. Cat’s ears perk up, but she doesn’t move from her spot. Too much effort, apparently.
The door opens and Flick freezes, her gaze locked on the couch where Cat sprawls in feline majesty. For a heartbeat, Flick’s face cycles through several different emotions—relief, joy, something that might be tears threatening.
But then she’s crossing the room in quick strides. Not toward Cat, though. Straight to me.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her palms coming to rest against my chest. Through my shirt, I can feel the slight tremor in her hands.
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, catching a tear that’s escaped. “Of course.”
