Part 2
Willa ran without looking for the tom. She cleared the porch steps and slipped into the darkest corner of the gazebo, crouching behind the chair legs until her breathing slowed.
For a while, every sound held her still.
Then a sparrow called from the roof edge. It hopped into view, disappeared, and came down onto the railing.
Willa’s ears lifted. When the bird fluttered toward the shrubs, she followed at a distance, staying low. It led her attention from one patch of grass to another before flying toward the lake.
Beneath a broad thicket, the ground was shaded and cool. Willa turned twice, stretched her forelegs, and fell asleep with one cheek against the dirt.
The siren woke her.
She stayed beneath the leaves as a large white vehicle backed toward the porch. Red light flashed across the tree trunks. Two people carried bags into the cabin, and unfamiliar voices traveled through the open door.
Willa crept far enough forward to see the steps.
The people came out again with Ruth lying between them on a wheeled bed. A light sheet covered her legs. Her face did not turn toward the yard.
As they lowered the stretcher from the porch, her arm slipped over the side. The hand that opened Willa’s food and warmed the hollow behind her ears swung close to the metal frame.
Willa moved out from the bushes.
One of the people lifted Ruth’s arm back onto the stretcher. The bed slid into the vehicle. Doors closed, hiding her.
Grant came out carrying his keys. He locked the cabin, tugged the handle, and hurried down the steps. Willa stepped into his path, her nose lifted toward him.
“Move. Not now!”
He swerved around her and ran to his car. A moment later, gravel flew against the grass, and both vehicles were gone.
Willa went to the door.
Ruth’s smell lingered near the frame and along the porch boards. Willa waited there until the sun had passed behind the trees, then found a few pieces of food in her bowl. She ate them and returned to the gazebo.
The blanket held the shape Ruth had made in it.
That night, each distant engine brought Willa’s head up. None turned into the drive.
The bowl remained empty the next morning.
She returned to the foundation, to the grass, to the narrow places where she had learned to listen. Rain collected in a shallow basin beside the downspout. When she heard a car beyond the woods, she hurried toward the porch and waited until its sound faded.
Leaves gathered against the steps. The raspberry canes thinned. Her coat grew back, but the nights grew cold more quickly, and she began sleeping with her nose buried beneath her tail.
In November, tires finally entered the driveway.
Willa rose from beneath the gazebo bench. She could hear the car door, the opening of the rear hatch, the heavy tread she knew.
Grant carried a small insulated cat shelter under one arm and a plastic litter tray in the other. He set them on the floorboards, went back for a bag of food, and tore it open. Kibble struck the wood in a long dry rattle. He emptied most of it into a heap and left the open bag beside it.
Willa stayed under the bench.
Grant’s coat brushed the railing when he straightened. His face was drawn, and he stood for a moment with one hand braced against a post.
“She’s still in the hospital,” he said. “I can’t keep coming all the way out here. Do you understand? I can’t.”
His breath whitened the air between the posts.
He went into the cabin. Willa could hear drawers opening and something heavy sliding across the floor. He came out with boxes, then a bundle of winter clothing. When the car started, she walked to the gazebo entrance.
The tires left dark tracks through a thin covering of snow.
The sparrow landed on the railing after he had gone. It called and hopped twice. Willa watched it without lowering herself into a crouch.
Behind her, there was food. Ahead of her, the cabin windows stayed dark.
Snow gradually erased the places she knew. It filled the path between gazebo and porch, buried the lower fence rails, and pressed against the shelter’s entrance. Willa used the little shelter during storms, but returned to the wool on the chair when she could climb onto it.
The sparrow came often. It picked at broken pieces around the food pile and sheltered briefly beneath the roof when wind drove snow through the lattice.
Willa stopped chasing it.
The heap of kibble dwindled. She nosed the empty bag, pushed her head inside, and scraped at the seams. There was a little dust at the bottom. She licked it away.
After that, she spent longer beside the foundation and the exposed roots of the shrubs. Her ears followed movements she could no longer see. Sometimes she found a mouse. Sometimes she waited until her paws hurt and returned to the chair with nothing.
Her fur caught moisture and dried in tangles. Beneath it, her hips grew sharp. Climbing onto the chair took an awkward pull with her front legs, followed by a pause before she could gather her hindquarters beneath her.
Late in February, sunlight reached a strip of bare stone along the patio. Willa stood there, trembling, while the sparrow called overhead.
A faint scratching moved beneath the crust a few feet away.
Her head lowered. She shifted one hind foot, then the other, bringing them under her narrow body. The sound came again. She held still, listening for the next small movement.
Two hours away, a coffee-shop server wiped a wet ring off the table while Grant searched the pocket of his overcoat.
Daniel Avery moved his cup aside to make room for the envelope Grant laid down. The cabin sale had closed less than an hour earlier. Inside were keys, copies of the recorded papers, and the alarm information.
Grant kept a hand on the envelope after Daniel reached for it.
“There’s an animal up there. I should mention it.”
Daniel waited.
“A cat. My wife’s.”
“Inside the cabin?”
“No. Out back.” Grant released the envelope. “It’s been staying there.”
Daniel set his cup down without drinking. He and Beth had spent years looking for a modest lake place they could repair themselves. They had accepted the cabin’s worn siding and old plumbing. Grant had wanted a quick sale because of his wife’s medical bills.
“How often is somebody going in?” Daniel asked. “The association quits clearing those roads in December.”
“Nobody’s going in.”
Daniel looked at the window, where pedestrians were stepping around a patch of dirty ice, then back at Grant.
“When did you last feed it?”
“November.”
A chair scraped at the next table. Grant began fastening his coat.
“That’s three months.” Daniel’s voice came out louder than he intended. He lowered it. “What did you tell your wife?”
“My wife is in intensive care.” Grant leaned toward him. “Some days I don’t know whether she’ll make it. You think I have room for this?”
Daniel pushed his chair back.
“You could have called someone. Anybody.”
Grant picked up his gloves.
“You own the place now. Handle it.”
He left the envelope on the table and walked out…
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