She looked directly at him.
Tom waited for her to run.
She did not.
“Well.”
He said it quietly.
The cat’s ears moved.
Tom stayed where he was.
He had seen feral cats around farms many times.
Most vanished the instant a person noticed them.
This one simply watched.
Not friendly.
Not relaxed.
But curious.
Tom raised his hand slowly.
“Morning.”
The cat blinked.
Tom almost laughed.
“You live here?”
No response.
“I suppose that is personal.”
For nearly a minute, neither moved.
Then the cat turned.
She glanced toward the woods.
Walked into the taller grass.
Disappeared.
Tom remained there.
Something about the encounter bothered him in a pleasant way.
Like a song he almost remembered.
At breakfast, he thought about her again.
By afternoon, he had mostly forgotten.
Three mornings later, she returned.
Different place.
Same distance.
Sitting beneath a dogwood.
Tom stopped.
“You again.”
She watched.
Tom continued walking without approaching.
The third sighting came four days after that.
The fourth the following week.
Without deciding to, Tom started adjusting the timing of his morning walk.
He reached the southern meadow around the time the cat usually appeared.
Sometimes she was there.
Sometimes not.
He never called her.
Never offered food.
He simply allowed their routine to develop.
Near the end of May, another cat appeared.
This one was gray.
Broad.
Male, Tom assumed.
He had a white patch beneath his chin and the thick neck of an animal that had spent years fighting other animals about property boundaries.
Tom saw him beside the creek grooming himself on a flat rock.
The gray cat noticed Tom.
Paused.
Then continued licking one paw.
Tom laughed.
“You’re friendlier than she is.”
The gray cat ignored him.
That afternoon, Tom drove into town.
He stopped at the library.
The librarian, a woman named Linda who had known Patricia, looked surprised when he carried three books toward the desk.
“Cats?”
Tom shrugged.
“Research.”
“You getting one?”
“No.”
Linda smiled.
“That sounds like yes.”
“They’re outside.”
“Ah.”
Tom frowned.
“What does ah mean?”
“It means you’re getting several.”
“I am not getting any.”
Linda checked out the books.
“Of course.”
At home, Tom read.
He learned the difference between feral and stray.
He learned that some cats born outdoors never became comfortable being handled.
Others had once lived with people and might be socialized again.
He learned that cats could form loose colonies around reliable food and shelter.
He learned that females could have multiple litters each year.
He learned about trap-neuter-return programs.
He learned about diseases.
Vaccinations.
Parasites.
Predators.
He also learned something that bothered him.
Feeding outdoor cats without sterilizing them could increase suffering.
More kittens.
More fights.
More disease.
Tom closed the book.
He had spent his career fixing systems.
He understood unintended consequences.
The next morning, he called a veterinary clinic.
The receptionist connected him to a technician named Casey.
Tom explained.
“One brown female.”
“Maybe female.”
“One gray male.”
“Probably.”
“Not feeding.”
“Good.”
Tom frowned.
“Why good?”
“Because if you start feeding regularly, they may begin depending on your property.”
“Then you should have a plan.”
Tom liked that word.
Plan.
Casey gave him the number for Cumberland Community Cats, a small rescue group.
Tom wrote it down.
He did not call immediately.
He wanted to watch longer.
By early June, Tom had located what he believed was the brown tabby’s shelter.
Years earlier, a storm knocked down an enormous oak near the southern tree line.
The roots pulled from the earth, leaving a dark hollow partly hidden beneath grapevines and ferns.
Tom saw the cat enter twice.
After that, he stayed away.
Something about the place felt private.
Then, late one evening in June, Tom was sitting on the porch when the brown tabby appeared.
She moved slowly through the meadow.