Doc Fluffbutt blinked at me from across the room. Slow. Considered. Deeply unimpressed.
“Fantastic.”
“He has a carrier!” Lily announced, producing a small mesh-windowed backpack from behind her with the triumphant energy of someone revealing a solution they’d prepared well in advance.
I looked from the carrier to her.
“You found a cat backpack,” I said flatly.
“It was in the storage room.” She held it up a little higher. “It was meant to be.”
“Nothing about any of this is meant to be,” I said.
She ignored me with the practiced ease of someone who’d already stopped listening and began guiding Doc Fluffbutt into the carrier with surprising efficiency, as if the two of them had rehearsed it.
“You’re going to be safe,” she told him, zipping the front halfway. “We’re a very capable group.”
I snorted. “That’s debatable.”
The cat turned once inside the carrier, arranged himself, and purred with the deep, satisfied resonance of someone who had just secured a significant upgrade in accommodations.
Fiona laughed—so bright and genuine it caught me off guard.
“Come on,” she said. “You’ve handled worse than this.”
“I’ve handled a lot of things,” I said. “None of them required me to keep a cat alive through the end of civilization.”
Libby passed close behind me and bumped her shoulder lightly against mine.
“You’ll manage,” she said.
I looked at her sideways. “Yeah?”
“You’re very adaptable.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “It’s one of your better qualities.”
I huffed out a breath. “I’ll add it to the resume. Navy SEAL. Survival expert. Cat security.”
Lily looked up from adjusting the carrier straps, grinning. “Doc Fluffbutt approves.”
“Doc Fluffbutt has no responsibilities and a private guard,” I said. “Of course he approves.”
The cat blinked again from behind its mesh window. Serene. Sovereign. Completely unbothered by the state of the world outside, or anything else for that matter.
I shook my head and reached for my pack.
“Ten minutes,” I said. “Everyone ready to move?”
* * *
I ran a final check on my weapon near the back door, then rolled my shoulder. The burn was still there, manageable enough to ignore.
“Where are we at, guys?” I said, glancing up.
Libby came in from the hallway carrying what could only be described as organized chaos.
“Food, water, batteries, basic tools,” she said, setting everything down with a soft thud and straightening up. “I prioritized caloric density over taste.”
“Taste is overrated anyway,” I said.
