“I know Nina would never leave you by choice.”
That answer was gentle, but it was not reassuring.
Misha heard the difference. So did I.
The paper bag in his hands rustled.
A tiny sound came from inside it.
Everyone froze.
Ray leaned over the counter. “Please tell me your expensive paper bag did not just sneeze.”
Misha’s eyes widened.
Mikhail looked at his son.
“Misha.”
The boy hugged the bag closer. “He was wet.”
“Misha.”
“He followed me first.”
“Misha.”
“He has no mother.”
A second tiny sneeze came from the bag.
I pressed my lips together, fighting an inappropriate smile.
Mikhail closed his eyes for one long second, like a man asking the universe for patience and finding the account empty.
“What,” he asked carefully, “is in the bag?”
Misha opened it.
Inside, wrapped in two napkins and part of my clean dish towel, was the smallest gray kitten I had ever seen. It blinked up at us with blue eyes and a fierce expression entirely out of proportion to its size.
Ray pointed at me. “That’s my towel.”
“You said it had a hole in it,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean I donated it to a criminally tiny cat.”
Misha looked worried. “Is he not allowed?”
Before I could answer, the kitten sneezed again.
Mikhail stared at it.
The kitten stared back.
I had the very distinct feeling that neither respected the other’s authority.
“He was near the parking lot,” Misha said. “Everyone was walking fast because of the rain. I thought someone would step on him.”
“You left Nina to follow a kitten?” Mikhail asked.
