"Ragdolls?"
"No."
"Anything purebred?"
I pause mid-wipe. Jellybean flicks his tail. "We specialize in strays."
Her lips twitch. "Oh."
She leaves without ordering.
Big Pete mutters something under his breath. I catch the word "snob" and pretend I didn't. He's loyal that way. Loyal and terrible at whispering.
The next hour passes in the usual rhythm. Orders, cleanup, small talk. A toddler shrieks with delight when Muffin, a gray shorthair with white socks, headbutts his palm. His mom orders a latte and tips in coins. I smile because it's genuine, not because it's profitable.
By ten-thirty, the morning rush thins. I refill the pastry case, wipe down the espresso machine, and check the schedule Nora taped to the fridge. She's drawn smiley faces next to her shifts and added glitter stickers to mine. I don't have the heart to peel them off.
The bell jingles again. I glance up, expecting another customer, but it's just Gumbo's nephew hauling in a crate from the back alley. He's seventeen, all elbows and attitude, and he drops the crate on the floor with a thud that makes the nearest cat bolt.
"Careful!" I round the counter. "What's in there?"
"Dunno. Delivery guy said it's yours."
"I didn't order anything."
He shrugs. "Got your name on it."
I crouch and read the label. Sure enough, my name's scrawled in sharpie across the side. No return address. No invoice. I grab a box cutter from the drawer and slice through the tape.
The lid pops open.
A ball of black fur erupts from the crate, hissing like a punctured tire. Tiny claws scramble against cardboard. I jerk back, and the kitten launches itself at the side of the crate, flips, lands hard, and hisses again.
"Whoa." Gumbo's nephew backs toward the door. "You got a demon in there."
"Don't be dramatic."
But I'm staring at the kitten, and my pulse is doing something stupid. It's small. Too small. Ribs press against matted fur. One ear's torn, and its tail is crooked, like it healed wrong after a break. It bares needle teeth and makes a sound that's half-growl, half-wheeze.
I lower myself to the floor. Slowly. The kitten flattens against the crate, eyes huge and yellow.
"Hey." My voice comes out softer than I expect. "You're okay."
It hisses again, but quieter. Uncertain.
I don't reach for it. I just sit. Gumbo shuffles closer, scone crumbs on his sweater. Nora peeks around the counter, headphones dangling.
"Is it sick?" she whispers.
"Scared."
"Same thing sometimes."
I glance at her, and she shrugs, twisting the cord of her headphones.
The kitten shifts. One paw creeps forward, then retreats. Its ears twitch. I stay still, breathing slow, letting it decide.
Mrs. Pemberton clears her throat from her booth. "Are you going to let that creature destroy the cafe?"
