30

 

 

 

 

30

 

 

We’re in a suburb of a city somewhere, and the suburb’s name is Rosefield. We’re on the money side of the place, the part where everything is glossy and clean. Trash-free sidewalks lined with fancy cars, cafés with frilled awnings spread over outside tables. Trimmed trees and perfect flower bushes.

We got here kind of by accident, piling off the train after a lady who was hiding a kitten under her jacket. I caught the glimpse—bright green eyes mottled with brown, staring out at us from the shadow of a lapel. It tried once or twice to mew at us: tiny, bright-white fangs guarding a pretty, pink tongue. I say ‘try’, but maybe it did. The world can be loud for such a small voice, especially if nobody knows to be listening.

“Follow the kitty,” my mother said when the woman stood, and jabbed me with her elbow. “Hurry. Animals are always a good sign.”

I don’t know about that, but maybe.

The cat didn’t really matter, of course. Not if yo