Eliza closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“No.”
June said.
“I mean we can’t keep pretending he’s happy here.”
“He likes you.”
Eliza replied.
“He sleeps with Marcus.”
“He plays.”
“He eats.”
“He survives.”
June said.
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Eliza looked at Louie.
June continued.
“After you returned him the first time, he changed.”
“How?”
“He waited by the front door every evening.”
“For you.”
“No.”
Eliza said immediately.
June ignored the denial.
“He’d hear a car and run to the window.”
“He slept with us sometimes.”
“But he spent hours staring toward the door.”
“When he got out the second time, he didn’t wander.”
“He ran.”
“Straight away.”
“Like he already had somewhere in mind.”
Eliza said:
“He’s an animal.”
“That doesn’t mean he knows what he’s doing.”
“I know.”
June replied softly.
“But I also know what unhappy looks like.”
“We love him.”
“That’s why we’re returning him.”
The next morning, Eliza drove Louie back to the shelter.
She could not keep him.
Three kittens occupied her foster room.
One senior cat named Mr. Pickles needed daily medication.
Her rule existed for a reason.
Della placed Louie back in kennel four.
He walked inside.
Turned.
Sat.
Stared through the door at Eliza.
She crouched.
“This is temporary.”
Louie blinked.
“We’ll find the right one.”
Slow blink.
“You are being unreasonable.”
Della leaned against the wall.
“You know he cannot understand that sentence.”
“Good.”
Eliza replied.
“Because I’m mostly talking to myself.”
Della said nothing.
Eliza visited twice that week.
Then three times the next.
She always told herself she was visiting everyone.
But somehow she always ended up sitting on the floor outside kennel four.
Louie did not cry.
That made it worse.
He simply waited.
A month passed before the shelter approved another adopter.
Lionel Bellamy.
Sixty-eight.
Retired English teacher.
Widower.
Cat owner for most of his adult life.
His previous cat, Beatrice, had died at nineteen.
Lionel lived eight miles from Eliza on a quiet property near the edge of the county.
His house had storm windows.
A screened catio.
Two entry doors forming a small enclosed vestibule.
If any home could prevent escape, it was Lionel’s.
Della sounded optimistic.
“Experienced owner.”
“Secure house.”
“No other pets.”
“Eight miles away.”
Eliza asked:
“What does eight miles have to do with it?”
Della shrugged.
“If Louie somehow followed a familiar scent or road pattern before, maybe distance breaks it.”
Cats did not navigate like homing pigeons.
Eliza knew that.
But she wanted to believe distance would solve something.
The December handoff felt wrong immediately.
Louie loved car rides unusually well.
Usually he sat calmly inside the carrier.
That morning, he cried.
Not continuously.
Short, low calls.
Every few miles.
Eliza talked to him.
“It’s okay.”
No response.
“You’re going somewhere good.”
Another cry.
“You’re making me feel terrible.”
Louie pressed his face against the carrier door.
Lionel welcomed them warmly.
He had purchased the food brand Louie preferred.
He had three cat trees.
A heated bed.
A window shelf.
A screened patio facing bird feeders.
It was objectively excellent.
Louie refused to leave the carrier.
Eliza opened the door.
Waited.
Nothing.
Lionel crouched several feet away.
“No pressure.”