It was a cat. Soaking wet, the color of storm clouds, with its ears pinned down and its whole body trembling. It watched Maya with wide amber eyes but didn't move, not even when a car rolled past and sent a wave of cold water skimming across the pavement.
Maya stood on the step and looked back at the bench.
The cat was still there, watching her.
She walked back and sat beside the bench, right on the wet ground, and reached one hand underneath. The cat sniffed her fingers. Its nose was cold. Its fur was absolutely drenched. Very slowly, it pressed the top of its head against her palm.
Maya tucked the cat inside her jacket, holding it against her chest. It was heavier than it looked, and it dug its claws lightly into her sleeve, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold on. She started walking toward home again. The rain didn't slow down.
Her mother opened the front door before Maya even reached the step. She took one look at her daughter — soaked through, shoes squelching, a pair of amber eyes glowing from inside the jacket — and put her hand over her mouth.
"His name is Kay," Maya said firmly, before her mother could say a single word.