Of course.
Fur babies always wake up hungry.
Slipping out of bed, I do my best not to wake Cami.
Last night, she mentioned feeling dizzy—once on our walk back from Millie’s, then again before we fell asleep.
Probably all the wine. But I did say if her head’s still spinning today, we’re going to the doctor.
As I scoop up Stripe and Shadow from the playpen, Sleeping Beauty stirs, barely.
“You rest, Bubble Girl,” I whisper, brushing my mouth over hers. “I’ve got the chaos crew. Then I’ll go grab us bagels and coffee.”
“From Seaport?” she asks, still groggy.
“Where else?”
Hauling the kittens downstairs, I carry one under each arm. Stripe lets out a pitiful warble while Shadow climbs my shirt like it’s her personal jungle gym.
“Relax, gremlins. Food’s coming.”
We’re weaning them off bottles, mixing formula into mush that we call Kitty Gourmet.
Cami swears Stripe’s the bold one, but they both still trip over their own paws when they get too excited, all wobbly legs, no coordination, and enough attitude to rival their foster mom.
After setting them in the pop-up playpen by the kitchen, I scoop a spoonful of the fancy wet stuff into their bowls. Theydive in like tiny sharks. Shadow makes a sound like she hasn’t eaten in days even though they had bottles at midnight.
Figures.
Morning light creeps through gray-streaked curtains, laced with gold. Quiet. Peaceful. Almost enough to make me forget the world outside this house still exists.
Leaning on the counter, I watch Shadow and Stripe snort and slurp like wild things, my mind drifting back to thoughts of what will happen with these two when summer ends.
A shuffle behind me snaps me out of the moment.
I glance back, and Cami’s wrapped in one of my button-downs, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
Her skin looks pale, and she’s moving slowly, like her limbs haven’t quite caught up with the day.
“You okay?”
“Went to the restroom,” she mumbles, rubbing her temple. “But, I don’t feel so great.”
She takes a step forward. Then crumples like her strings were cut.
I’m lunging, arms catching her right before she hits the floor.
“Cami—”
Fluorescent lights hum overhead.
Cami lies pale beneath a hospital blanket, the rise and fall of her chest the only thing piecing me together.
She’s awake now. But I’m still stuck in the seconds between her collapse and that first breath she took in my arms.
I can still feel the weight of her head against my shoulder. Still hear the silence that followed her collapse. Still hear whatshe’d shared weeks ago, soft and serious, about her mom’s heart condition.
About the six-month checkups.
