Yolo’s not in the car.
61.
now
How did he get out?
I left the window open a crack so he would have fresh air, but it’s not wide enough for him to get through. Is it?
I walk through the field. Check the dugout. Come back to the car. He’s still not here.
I drive slowly, slowly, looking for the flash of his eyes all along the road.
Nothing.
Cats can find their way home. Can’t they? Haven’t I read that somewhere? And Yolo’s smart. He might be home by now.
I pull up in front and race for the door, calling out as I go inside. I look by the cat door into the garage, check every room, under every bed, behind every piece of furniture.
“Hey, Yolo,” I call out. “You hungry?”
I pour his cat food into a bowl. Usually that sound brings him running from any corner of the house.
“Yolo?” My voice shakes.
Maybe he’s mad about what I said.
He can’t be lost.
“I did mean to wish for you,” I say. “I did. I did. I’m so glad you’re back. Yolo, please come back.”
62.
now
He’s upstairs, in the bathroom where I sleep, curled up in the spot under the vanity. I didn’t see him the first time I came through because he was so tucked in.
“Yolo,” I say, and the tears almost almost come, but they are stuck.
“You freaked me out,” I say. “You’re so smart. So smart. You made it all the way home.”
I don’t know how he got out of the car or into the house, but I do know this: I’m never letting him out of my sight again.
63.
once
“You really don’t have to give me this,” I told Sam. In my hands I held the small brown-paper box he’d handed me, tied with a red ribbon. “It’s not actually my birthday.”
Jack was laughing outright. “Oh man,” he said. “It’s happeningagain.”
“Wait,” Sam said. “What?”
The three of us were sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard. We’d submerged our feet in the plastic kiddie pool that my mom kept around for super-muggy summer days like this. Every now and then our feet brushed against each other’s in the water. The air still smelled like hamburgers. Or maybe someone else nearby was grilling late. My parents had gone inside to get dessert ready, and if I turned my head slightly, I could see them in the well-lit kitchen, cleaning up and talking. We were waiting for it to get dark enough for fireworks. Fireflies were starting to tumble and shine in the bushes along the edge of the yard.
“Today isn’t July’s birthday,” Jack said.
“It’s not?” Sam stared at me.
