Lumi had never scratched at the front door like that before.
Not once.
Not even on the afternoon a squirrel sat on the porch railing for twenty straight minutes and twitched its tail at him like a personal insult.
Not when a neighborhood dog wandered into the yard.
Not when a thunderstorm shook the windows hard enough to send him under the couch.
But that quiet September evening, Lumi stood on his back legs and dragged both front paws down the wood again and again.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Then he dropped to the floor.
Turned.
Looked at Evelyn Carter.
Meowed.
Not the ordinary meow he used when the food bowl was late.
Not the sharp complaint he made when she closed the bathroom door.
This sound was softer.
Urgent.
Almost questioning.
Then Lumi ran halfway down the hall.
Stopped.
Looked back.
And ran to the door again.
Evelyn lowered the book in her hands.
“What is wrong with you?”
Lumi scratched again.
His claws caught the bottom edge of the door.
He meowed.
Then turned his head toward the narrow glass panel beside the frame.
Outside, evening light stretched long across Maple Ridge Road.
The sun had gone behind the trees, but the sky still held enough gold to make the pavement shine.
Nothing moved.
No delivery truck.
No neighbor.
No dog.
Evelyn checked the clock.
7:18 p.m.
Lumi was usually asleep on the armchair at that hour.
After dinner, he had a routine almost as strict as Evelyn’s.
Eat.
Drink.
Spend ten unnecessary minutes licking one shoulder.
Inspect the kitchen.
Jump onto the living-room chair.
Sleep until nine.
Then wake suddenly and behave as if nobody had fed him in days.
Tonight, he had barely touched his food.
That should have bothered Evelyn sooner.
Instead, she had assumed he was being difficult.
Cats were experts at making normal behavior look mysterious.
But Lumi was not behaving normally.
He scratched once more.
Then planted himself in front of the door and stared at her.
“All right.”
Evelyn stood.
“You win.”
The moment her hand touched the deadbolt, Lumi became still.
Evelyn noticed.
His ears pointed forward.
His body leaned toward the opening before there was even enough room for him to pass.
She unlocked the screen door.
“Don’t run into the road.”
Lumi slipped through the gap.
He did not stop on the porch.
Did not sniff the planter.
Did not roll on the warm concrete.
He jumped down the three steps and ran along the front walk.
“Lumi.”
He continued toward the driveway.
“Lumi, stop.”
The cat stopped.
He turned.
Meowed.
Then continued.
That was when Evelyn felt the first small pulse of unease.
Lumi was an indoor cat.
Mostly.
He was allowed onto the screened back porch and sometimes into the fenced side garden while Evelyn worked outside.
He did not wander.
The road frightened him.
Delivery trucks frightened him.
A motorcycle could send him running under a hydrangea bush.
Yet now he walked directly toward the end of the driveway.
Not casually.
Purposefully.
Evelyn slipped her feet into the gardening shoes beside the porch.
“Lumi.”
The cat disappeared behind the mailbox.
Evelyn hurried.
At sixty-eight, she no longer hurried elegantly.
Her right knee complained almost immediately.
She reached the driveway.
Lumi was standing on the grassy shoulder beside Maple Ridge Road.
He looked east.
Then west.
Then back at her.
“Come here.”
Instead, he ran across the edge of her lawn and toward the narrow strip of grass beyond the property line.
Evelyn followed.
The road curved gently downhill about sixty yards from the house.
A line of old maples grew along one side.
On the other side, the ground dropped into a shallow drainage ditch before rising toward a row of smaller homes.
Lumi trotted along the grass.
Every fifteen feet, he stopped.
Turned.
Checked whether Evelyn was following.
That was what frightened her.
He was leading her.
The thought sounded ridiculous even in her own mind.
Cats did not lead people to emergencies.
Cats led people to empty food bowls.
Dead insects.
A suspicious sock.
But Lumi was doing something.
“Where are we going?”
He disappeared around the curve.
Evelyn quickened her pace.
Then she heard him.
A long meow.
Another.