Lucas.
847 Oak Street.
When she finished, Theodore said:
“That is insane.”
“I know.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That is what I need to know.”
Marla looked at Winnie.
“Which shelter?”
“Bluewater Tails.”
“Why that one?”
“It was close to work.”
“Did they tell you anything about him?”
“Only that he was surrendered.”
“Older cat.”
“Depressed.”
“Needed patience.”
“Who surrendered him?”
“No idea.”
“Previous owner?”
“No.”
Marla whispered:
“I need to call them.”
Bluewater Tails Rescue answered on the fourth ring.
“Bluewater Tails, Jenny speaking.”
“My name is Marla Cooper.”
“My son adopted an orange tabby from you around four months ago.”
“His name at adoption may have been Winston.”
Jenny asked for the date.
Theodore’s name.
Marla’s contact information.
Typing followed.
“I found him.”
Jenny said.
“What do you need?”
“His history.”
There was a pause.
“What specifically?”
“Where he lived before.”
“Who owned him.”
“Why he was surrendered.”
Jenny became cautious.
“We normally protect surrender information.”
“I understand.”
Marla looked at Winnie.
“He has been traveling across town every school day to one specific house.”
Silence.
“What?”
“He rides a school bus.”
Jenny did not answer for several seconds.
Marla continued.
“I followed him today.”
“He goes to 847 Oak Street.”
“I think he knows that house.”
“I need to understand why.”
Jenny’s voice softened.
“Can you hold?”
“Yes.”
Marla waited.
Music played.
Thirty seconds felt like ten minutes.
Jenny returned.
“My supervisor says I can share basic history because this appears relevant to his welfare.”
Marla gripped the phone.
“Okay.”
“His original name was Winston.”
“Yes.”
“He entered our shelter May second.”
“Who brought him?”
“David Brooks.”
“Relationship?”
Jenny typed.
“Brother of the owner.”
Marla stopped breathing.
“Owner?”
“The owner had died.”
Marla sat.
“What was his name?”
“Michael Brooks.”
“Age seventy-three.”
“Winston lived with him for approximately six years.”
Marla looked toward Winnie.
The room suddenly felt different.
“Address?”
Jenny paused.
Then read:
“847 Oak Street.”
Marla closed her eyes.
The school bus.
The porch.
Lucas.
The scratching.
The waiting.
The sadness.
None of it was random.
Winnie was not visiting strangers.
He was going home.
His first home.
The place where he had spent six years with Michael Brooks.
The place from which he had been removed after the only person he knew disappeared.
Marla whispered:
“Why was he surrendered?”
“Michael lived alone.”
“David handled the estate.”
“He lived in an apartment that didn’t allow pets.”
“Other family members couldn’t take Winston.”
“The notes say the cat stopped eating well after Michael’s death.”
“He hid.”
“Vocalized at night.”
“They were worried.”
Marla’s eyes filled.
Jenny continued gently.
“The shelter environment was difficult for him.”
“But he improved before adoption.”
Marla looked at the orange cat sitting by the window.
“He remembers.”
Jenny said:
“Cats can have strong associations with places and routines.”
“Especially after years.”
Marla whispered:
“He’s been trying to go back.”
After the call, she sat without moving.
Winnie eventually came toward her.
He jumped onto the couch.
Marla looked at him.
“Winston.”