"It's three inches tall."
"It could have rabies."
"So could you."
Gumbo snorts. Nora claps a hand over her mouth. Mrs. Pemberton's face flushes the color of undercooked salmon, and she gathers her purse with the kind of offended precision that means she'll be back tomorrow, same time, same order.
The door jingles shut behind her.
The kitten inches closer. Its nose twitches. I stay locked in place, knees aching against the tile. It sniffs my hand. Pauses. Sniffs again.
Then it headbutts my palm.
The contact is so light I almost miss it. But the kitten leans in, just a fraction, and the hiss fades into a rasp that might be a purr.
"There you go," I murmur. "Not so bad, right?"
It blinks. Slow. Deliberate.
I scoop it up in one careful motion, cradling it against my chest. It weighs nothing. Just bones and fur and fury. It trembles, but it doesn't fight.
Nora edges closer, her sneakers squeaking softly against the tile. "What's its name?"
"Don't know yet." I keep my voice low, not wanting to spook the tiny thing pressed against my chest.
"You always name them after sea stuff," she points out, tucking a strand of purple-tipped hair behind her ear.
"I'm aware." The kitten's claws catch in the weave of my apron, tiny pinpricks of pressure that somehow don't hurt.
Gumbo taps his weathered chin, the kind of theatrical thinking gesture he always uses when he's about to say something he finds clever. "How about Barnacle?"
"Absolutely not."
He grins, undeterred. "Pebble?"
I shoot him a look, and he raises his hands in surrender. The kitten curls against my apron, claws kneading fabric. Its purr rattles louder now, uneven but insistent.
"Urchin," I say.
Nora grins. "Perfect."
Big Pete leans over from his table. "You keeping it?"
"I keep all of them."
"You got room?"
I glance around the cafe. Jellybean's reclaimed the windowsill. Muffin's sprawled across the cat tree. Two more lounge near the bookshelf, tails twitching in unison. The place is full. Too full. But I look down at Urchin, at the way its eyes are starting to close, and the answer's already decided.
"I'll make room."
Big Pete nods, satisfied, and goes back to his coffee.
I carry Urchin to the back room, past the storage shelves and the ancient fridge that hums like a swarm of bees. There's a cardboard box in the corner, lined with towels I've been meaning to wash for a week. I set Urchin inside, and it circles twice before collapsing into a heap.
"Stay put," I tell it.
It yawns.
