I pop in a coffee pod just as my phone lights up on the counter.Unknown number.
Curious, I answer. “Hello?”
“Um… is this… uh… Dyson Jones?”
Male. Nervous.
“Who’s asking?”
A beat of silence. Then—click.
The hell?
I stare at the screen like it’s gonna explain itself. There was just something about the hesitation in his voice that won’t leave me alone. I call back. It rings and rings. No voicemail. Just static air and unanswered questions. I hate shit I can’t solve right away. If it can’t be fixed, I bury it. No dwelling, that’s my rule. Yet twenty minuteslater, my mind’s still flipping between that damn call and thesay you’re minefrom last night.
At noon, Lot stomps into the kitchen with fire in her eyes, Queenie trailing her like a furry shadow. Her oversized T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, phone gripped in her hand like it insulted her mama.
“You will not believe what these shelter people wrote about Queenie,” she snaps, scrolling furiously. “Listen to this mess.”
I lift an eyebrow, not mad at the view, but still swimming in my thoughts.
“Quote,” she begins, dramatic as hell. “‘Meet Queenie. Gray domestic shorthair. Two years old. Nine pounds of pure royalty. This sassy feline is a pint-sized monarch. She demands treats on schedule, dishes out affection on her own terms, and will throw shade if left alone. Not for the faint of heart. Queenie requires a patient home ready to serve a true queen of the castle.’”
She lowers the phone. “I’m about to go off on these people. They made her sound like a high-maintenance diva with attachment issues.”
I bark out a laugh. “Tell me they’re lying.”
“That’s not the point,” she says, aiming the phone at me. “I told them some things to help find the right home… but this… who’s going to adopt her after reading it?”
“You sure you want her adopted?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Hmm?”
“Thathmmis annoying as shit.” She cuts her eyes at me.
“Before you go off on anybody, take a beat. I’ll make you coffee.”
She plops onto the stool and looks down at Queenie, who’s putting on her sweet-and-innocent act. “See? She’s not that bad. You could adopt her.”
“That’s not happening,” I say, grabbing the cream from the fridge.
“Why not? She’s used to you now. She likes your scrambled eggs.”
“She tolerates me because you’re here. Like it or not, Queenie’s claimed you. Put her with anybody else and she’s gonna be a holy terror. Guaranteed.”
“Well, she came from somewhere,” she argues.
“And notice no one’s come looking for her. No missing cat flyers. No desperate posters to find her. No one can deal with that diva but you.”
“Ssskt.”
I hand her the mug. “Why can’t you keep her?”
“I live in New York.”
“So? She’s got all her shots, right? Just needs a plane ticket.”
