It was close to closing time on a wet Thursday night. The lobby lights were dimmed, the floor still smelled like disinfectant, and I was wiping down the front counter, already thinking about leftovers and sleep. Then I heard something scrape against the glass door.
At first I thought it was a branch blown loose by the wind.
It wasn’t.
It was a cat.
He was thin in that hard, ugly way that told you he’d been hungry a long time. One ear was torn. One front paw barely worked. His fur was matted with dirt and blood, and one side of his face looked swollen like he’d taken a hard hit somewhere out on the road.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t hiss. He just looked at me with this tired, flat stare, like he had used up every last bit of fight and had come to the only bright place still open.
I dropped to my knees and opened the door.
He tried to take one more step and collapsed right on the mat.
