The Purrfect Wingman
“You’re naming them now?”
“I think Spitfire’s too busy,” I said, glancing toward her. She gave me a side-eye glare, but didn’t object, too focused on keeping her now-growing pile of furballs close.
Pesto came next, another gray tabby, smaller than the rest, but with a strong cry and fast little limbs that made me feel hopeful. I handed him off to Ofelia, who murmured, “Hi, little guy,” like it was the first time she’d really let herself smile in days.
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