Waiting for him to leave.
Tom returned to the porch and watched with binoculars.
Thirty minutes.
Nothing.
An hour.
Fern appeared at the feeding station.
Ate.
Left in the opposite direction.
Two hours.
No mother approached the kitten.
Tom went back.
The kitten had moved perhaps six inches.
Her body felt cool when he carefully touched her through a towel.
Decision made.
Tom called the clinic.
Casey answered.
He explained.
Casey told him to warm the kitten gradually and bring her in as soon as possible.
“Don’t force food if she’s too cold.”
“Warm first.”
Tom carried the kitten home in a box lined with towels.
She weighed almost nothing.
He could feel every bone.
Tom set the box in the laundry room.
Heating pad beneath half, low setting.
He sat beside her.
“You’re making my morning complicated.”
The kitten did not respond.
He watched her breathe.
Minutes passed.
Then she lifted her head.
Tom called the clinic again.
They told him he could offer a small amount of warmed kitten formula if she was alert enough to swallow.
He did.
At first, the kitten turned away.
Then she sniffed.
Licked once.
Stopped.
Then drank.
Tom exhaled.
“Good.”
The kitten drank a little more.
“Good girl.”
That evening, Tom set alarms.
11 p.m.
2 a.m.
5 a.m.
He had not set overnight alarms since Patricia was sick.
At two, he sat on the laundry room floor in sweatpants holding the kitten.
She drank.
Then fell asleep against his wrist.
Tom whispered:
“Eat and rest.”
The words stopped him.
He had said them to Patricia.
During chemotherapy.
Eat and rest.
That’s the whole program.
Patricia used to roll her eyes.
“Doctor Perkins.”
Tom would tell her he outranked doctors because he knew where the breaker panels were.
Now, alone on the floor, Tom looked down at the kitten.
Grief rose unexpectedly.
Not violent.
Deep.
He let it.
For several minutes, Tom cried quietly.
The kitten slept.
When he finished, he wiped his face.
“Sorry.”
She opened one eye.
“You don’t know what any of that means.”
The kitten yawned.
“Lucky you.”
At the clinic, Dr. Melissa Grant examined her.
The kitten was severely underweight.
Dehydrated.
Fleas.
Mild eye infection.
But no major congenital problem could be identified.
“She’s fragile.”
Dr. Grant said.
“But she’s fighting.”
Tom liked that.
He received feeding instructions.
Medication.
Weight targets.
Emergency warning signs.
Tom wrote everything down.
For the next week, his world became organized around the kitten.
Feed.
Warm.
Clean.
Medication.
Sleep.
Repeat.
He weighed her every morning on an old kitchen scale.
First gain:
0.7 ounces.
Tom stared at the number.
“You did that.”
The kitten meowed.
On the third day, she stood.
Wobbled.
Collapsed.
Tried again.
Tom laughed.
“There you are.”
On the fifth day, she walked out of the box.
Two steps.
Then three.
On day seven, Tom sat in the laundry room reading while the kitten explored.
She climbed onto his boot.
Then his pant leg.
Then his lap.
She curled against his stomach.
Her purr was faint.
Tom could barely hear it.
But he felt it.
A tiny vibration through his shirt.
He looked toward the door.
“Patricia.”
He said it without thinking.