“You’re right,” I told him. “I’m late.”
He turned toward the kitchen.
I followed.
People still ask whether I knew what he was when I picked him up.
I tell them no.
Sometimes they ask how I managed to tame him.
I never know quite how to answer that.
Gus still hides from visitors. He still needs space. There are days when the closest he wants to be is the other end of the room.
But in the evenings, he comes to my chair.
I leave room beside my feet.
And when he lies down, when his eyes soften and his breathing slows, I remember that November night and the small bundle beneath my jacket.
I brought him home because I couldn’t leave him there.
Years later, after strangers broke our door and scattered our quiet life across the floor, I could give him the same thing again.
