Chapter 3: A Small Band of Helpers
The cold dirt beneath the porch was all Misty knew. Weakness was
a heavy blanket, and the shivers that wracked her small frame had grown still,
which was worse. She was drifting, nose dry, eyes sealed shut.
A new scent broke through her stupor: wet leaves, aged dust, and
other cats. A rough, warm tongue rasped across her crusted forehead. Misty
flinched, a feeble hiss catching in her throat.
“Easy, little storm cloud,” a voice seemed to rumble. A large,
barrel-chested tomcat with a notched ear and a coat like worn granite nudged
her gently. He was flanked by two others: a slender, all-black cat with
watchful eyes and a plump calico whose fur was a map of past battles.
They were the guardians of these alleys, a colony of veterans.
They saw not an intruder, but a fallen comrade. With surprising tenderness, the
calico helped Misty to her wobbly feet. The black cat darted ahead, tail high,
clearing a path. The old tom led the way.
Their haven was a dry nook beneath a sagging garden shed,
insulated by piled leaves and forgotten tarps. Here, they tended to her. The
calico, called Belle, shared her own food—a precious mouthful of tuna
scrap—licking Misty’s fur clean. The black cat, Sable, stood vigilant guard.
The old tom, called The Captain, radiated a calm safety that let Misty finally
sleep without fear.
Strength returned in tiny increments. First, the ability to lap
water from a dented lid. Then, to groom her own paws. Finally, to take a few
steps into the weak sunlight that filtered into their hideaway.
Her rescuers taught her their wisdom. The Captain showed her the
secret routes: the gaps in fences, the high walls safe from dogs. Sable
demonstrated the patient sit by the kitchen door of the bakery, where kindness
sometimes came as crusts. Belle taught her which berries were safe and how to
find the warm spots where buildings breathed out heat.
Misty learned, but her heart was fixed on a single point. Each
night, she would climb onto an old crate and stare past the rooftops, tasting
the air. The memory of a boy’s laugh, the smell of his hair, the feel of his
blanket—it was a pull stronger than hunger.
“The home-call is a powerful trail,” The Captain murmured,
sitting beside her one evening. “It’s not always the safest path, but it is
often the truest.”
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Misty pressed her head against his sturdy shoulder, her purr a
soft, grateful engine.
When the moon rose full and bright, painting the world in silver
and deep blue, Misty knew it was time. She was leaner, her senses sharp, her
muscles remembering how to be strong. She touched noses with Belle, brushed
against Sable, and gave a final, slow blink to The Captain. Their silent
farewell was full of understanding.
Turning, she slipped into the moonlight. The journey was a
puzzle of scent and shadow. She avoided the busy road, remembering The
Captain’s warning. She followed the whisper of a creek she knew led westward.
She scaled a familiar oak whose branches she’d once chased squirrels up. Every
rustle was a map, every night breeze a guide.
Her world was no longer a warm house, but the vast, sleeping
neighborhood. And at its center, like a beacon, was Leo.
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