Getting back into the office is more challenging than leaving it, and not simply because of the distance or my sore hind leg. Although I do not like to admit that I failed to consider the specifics of how I left – or how I might re-enter, I am forced to as I sit in the alley, eyeing the wall before me. The brick is pitted; the years and the grit that cycles down this alley have left their mark. But even that crumbling surface will offer little purchase for my claws, and the ledge is simply too high for me to jump. I do not need to test this hypothesis, as I am quite capable of judging both height and distance and have no illusions about my capacity at this point in my life. Which is not to say I have not already tried it, to the amusement of a muskrat who has since, wisely, made himself scarce.
It is not yet dawn, although the shadows of the street have begun to sharpen with the coming of day. The girl, from what I can hear, is still within. Still asleep, most likely, the scent of her former mentor and the lock on the door both granting her a peace I do not think she enjoys often. I would let her remain at rest, gathering what strength and solace she may. And once she wakes, then I would warn her, by what means I have not yet devised. I would turn her away from this Bushwick and his false quest. She is curious, I know, and more than that, desires to prove herself. To set herself up in the field her mentor was training her for. It’s a sensible development, promising longer health and greater autonomy than any of the other options that have been suggested. Watching her eat last night reminded me of how limited her resources are, how restricted her skills for survival.
Still, I would have her seek another task – another field if not another mentor. This Bushwick is not a thug like those by Fat Peter’s, but he – his warehouse – stink of something worse. No, this is simply another form of trap, although she does not see it. Another source of filth that would use and discard her, like so many soft and living creatures used thus before, though this brings me to a deeper fear: that she sees the trap and knows it for what it is. Her mentor was a hunter, of sorts. That much I have gathered. This girl – Care – is on her way to emulate him, to mimic his skills. Not simply for a livelihood but for her own satisfaction. She seeks redress for her mentor. To avenge him and solve the mystery of his death, and that is the most dangerous motivation of all.
The foot traffic in the street is picking up with the light, and I retreat to the far side of the alley. In shadow, I am less likely to be spotted, and from here I can make out movement within the room. An arm as she stretches. Her face, pale in the sun, as she turns around. I feel a pang of what might be regret as I realize she is looking for me. That she might experience concern at my absence. Already, she mourns one companion and fears for another. I cannot add to that burden.
I mew.
It is an undignified sound, both high and without distinction in terms of meaning or intent, and I hear it fade to no effect. Still, I realize as I see her head turning, as I see her seeking my sleek form, it may be my best chance. And so I call again – not a simple mew but a caterwaul. Putting my body in it, I let out a resonant yowl that would have passers-by turning were the day a little later, the street more trafficked.
‘Blackie?’ My ears, more acute than hers, hear her perfectly as she wheels around, searching for the source. I cry again and she comes to the window, opening it to reveal her matted hair and sleep-swollen eyes. ‘How did you … Hold on.’
I retreat to the shadows, aware of how I have exposed myself. That man Bushwick is a coward but he has too close an affinity with death for my comfort.
‘There you are.’ Care is at the mouth of the alley, wearing a man’s broadcloth shirt over her jeans. She has run a hand through her hair. The pink stands up like a flag while the rest of her slouches, relaxed and – dare I say? – happy. The rest has done her good, the safety of a known environment an antidote to the horrors of the day.
I emerge to greet her, my tail high, when the sudden rush of footsteps causes me to freeze. She spins – either the sound or the sight of my sudden change alerting her – and I hear a quick intake of breath.
‘Tick!’ She sobs with relief as she wraps her arms around the boy who this time has run to embrace her.