Her sister answered immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“Why does everyone answer me like that?”
“Because for six weeks, every call has begun with something terrible.”
Corrine looked at Basil.
“I adopted a cat.”
Silence.
Then:
“You what?”
“His name is Basil.”
Iris laughed.
“You hate litter boxes.”
“I’m evolving.”
“Send picture.”
Corrine did.
Three seconds later:
OH MY GOD.
Then:
HE LOOKS LIKE A CLOUD.
Corrine smiled.
“Yeah.”
The first strange thing happened nine days after the adoption.
Wednesday.
Cold rain outside.
Corrine sat on the couch watching a documentary.
Basil was stretched across the armrest.
At 9:32 p.m., his head lifted.
Instantly.
His ears moved forward.
His eyes widened.
Corrine looked toward the television.
Nothing unusual.
Basil stood.
Jumped down.
Walked directly to the interior garage door.
Then began scratching.
Corrine paused the documentary.
“What?”
Scratch.
Meow.
Not his normal small chirp.
A deeper, urgent sound.
Corrine stood.
“Basil.”
He looked at her.
Then at the door.
She opened it.
Basil shot through.
Corrine switched on the garage light.
The silver Subaru Outback sat where she had parked it that afternoon.
Basil jumped onto the hood.
Turned once.
Settled.
Corrine laughed.
“Oh.”
The hood was probably still slightly warm.
Cats loved heat.
Mystery solved.
She returned inside but left the connecting door partly open.
Around midnight, she checked.
Basil was no longer on the hood.
Corrine assumed he had returned inside.
She closed the garage door entrance and went to bed.
Next morning, she could not find him.
“Basil?”
No response.
Kitchen.
Bedroom.
Bathroom.
Under couch.
Nothing.
Then she heard a muffled meow from the garage.
She opened the door.
Basil stared at her through the passenger window of the Subaru.
Corrine froze.
“What?”
The car doors were closed.
She opened the passenger door.
Basil stepped out casually.
“How did you…”
She looked at the key hook near the kitchen.
Her keys were there.
Had she left the car unlocked?
Probably.
Grief had made her memory unreliable in small ways.
At least that was what Lena called it.
Grief fog.
Corrine lost her phone several times a day.
Forgot whether she had shampooed her hair.
Once found milk in the cupboard and cereal in the refrigerator.
She did not panic about any one strange detail anymore.
She picked Basil up.
“You are deeply weird.”
He purred.
The next evening at 9:31, Basil did it again.
Garage door.
Scratch.
Meow.
Corrine opened it.
He went straight to the car.
This time she locked the Subaru intentionally.
She checked twice.
“Good luck.”
She went to bed.
Morning.
Basil was inside the passenger seat.
Corrine stood completely still.
She checked the door.
Unlocked.
Her keys hung in the kitchen.
She looked at Basil.
“Okay.”
He blinked.
“Did you learn how to pick locks?”
Basil yawned.
Corrine inspected the car.
No broken window.
No damaged seal.
Nothing.
She convinced herself she had unlocked it again without remembering.
That bothered her.
Not enough.
The pattern continued.
Every night near 9:30, Basil became alert.
Every night he waited at the garage door until Corrine opened it.
Sometimes she tried refusing.