Part 5
Ethan crossed the yard with the carrier knocking against his thigh. The snow was deeper off the path, and twice he sank past his knees, twisting hard to keep his balance. By the time he reached the gazebo, his breath came in rough clouds and his gloves were wet to the lining.
The door groaned when he pulled it open.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, old leaves, and something sour beneath it. Ethan stood still until his eyes adjusted. He saw the torn bag of dry food first, flat and empty on the floor. Beside it sat a litter pan no one had ever filled. Against the far wall was a gray cat cave, collapsed slightly on one side, with a few pale hairs clinging to the seam.
He crouched and looked inside.
Nothing.
The sparrow fluttered through the open doorway behind him and landed on the table, bold as a thing that had outlived fear. It hopped toward a dark lump on the bench, then away again.
Ethan saw the wool blanket.
It was stiff with cold and folded over itself in a shape that might have been nothing. He removed one glove and slid his bare fingers under the edge. For a second he could not bring himself to lift it, because if the cat was beneath it, every hour between November and now would become real in a way he could not push away.
Then he pulled the blanket back.
Poppy lay curled on her side with her legs tucked close to her chest. Her fur was matted into hard clumps, and her body had shrunk so much that she looked like a kitten beneath an old cat’s coat. Her eyes were closed. Her ribs did not seem to move.
Ethan’s throat tightened. He put one hand on the bench to steady himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He touched two fingers to the side of her neck, not expecting anything. Her fur was cold, and for a moment that was all there was. Then, beneath his fingertips, came the smallest tremor. Not a purr. Not even a breath he could see.
A pulse.
Ethan leaned closer. Poppy’s eyelids flickered. With a terrible, exhausted effort, she opened her eyes and looked at him without focus.
“Oh, girl,” Ethan breathed. “You waited.”
He moved quickly after that, but carefully. He wrapped her in the wool blanket, then in the thermal blanket from his pack, leaving only her nose uncovered. When he lifted her, the lack of weight frightened him more than the cold. She felt like a bundle of sticks and cloth.
He tucked her inside his coat against his chest and zipped it halfway around her. The first weak breath warmed the thin fabric of his shirt. He held one hand over her through the coat while he gathered the carrier and started back across the yard.
The trip out was worse. He could use only one pole, because the other hand stayed on Poppy. The skis skidded over crusted snow, and his legs burned from fighting for balance. Every few minutes he stopped, not for himself but to feel the tiny movement beneath his coat.
The sparrow followed for part of the way, flying low from fence to branch, branch to mailbox. Ethan knew it was only looking for seed or shelter, but he found himself watching for it whenever the road curved. By the time he reached the car, his chest hurt from cold air and fear.
He laid Poppy on the passenger seat, still bundled, and started the engine. Warm air blasted from the vents. While the car heated, he opened the can of cat food and held it near her mouth. Her nose twitched, but she could not lift her head.
“Okay,” he said. “Not too fast. We’ll let the doctor do this right.”
As he closed the passenger door, he noticed the sparrow perched on a frozen weed near the front tire, feathers puffed against the wind. Ethan remembered the bag of sunflower seeds in the console, the one Maggie kept there for hikes. He opened it and poured a handful onto the packed snow.
“For your trouble,” he said softly.
Then he drove south, not toward home but toward the emergency veterinary clinic on the edge of Madison. He called ahead from the highway, his voice steady until the receptionist asked for the cat’s name.
Ethan looked at the bundle on the passenger seat. Grant had never told him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But she’s alive.”
At the clinic, a technician took the bundle from his arms and disappeared through double doors. Twenty minutes later, a veterinarian in navy scrubs came out with tired eyes and a clipboard held close to her chest.
“She’s critical,” the doctor said. “Severe dehydration, hypothermia, starvation, possible organ stress. We’re warming her slowly and starting fluids. You did the right thing by not forcing food.”
Ethan nodded, gripping the edge of the counter. “Can she make it?”
The doctor looked through the glass doors toward the treatment area. “She’s still fighting. But I need you to understand something.”
Ethan waited. “The next twelve hours matter a lot…”
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