Page 66 of Satisfied By the Slime
“Company.” The word comes out slow, weighted. “The same thing I was.”
The hair on my arms stands up. The green light brightens again, and I catch a glimpse of something at the edge of the glow.
A shape, low and irregular, pressed against the cave wall. It could be rock. It could be something that learned to look like rock.
Then a flashlight beam cuts through the dark from above.
“Deborah Pritchett, Neighborhood Watch!” The voice rings off the canyon walls, sharp and official. “Step away from that animal!”
I spin. Mrs. Pritchett stands at the rim of the wash, safety vest blazing orange, one hand cupping a flashlight the size of a billy club and the other gripping a coil of clothesline rope. Her sun hat is askew. Herexpression is the kind of determination you only see in someone who has rehearsed this moment.
Captain scrambles in Oz’s hold. Oz tightens his hold slightly, keeping the cat cradled, and the movement makes Mrs. Pritchett’s face go white.
“Put that cat down this instant!” She scrambles down the scree and her flashlight jerks wildly. “I saw you! You were going to eat it!”
“What?” I stand up, putting myself between her and Oz. “Mrs. Pritchett, no—”
“I have binoculars, Maisie. I’ve been watching the ridge all week, and tonight I see you sneaking off with—” she fumbles for the word, her flashlight landing on Oz’s iridescent surface, “—with that, and it’s got Gary’s cat! Give me Captain this instant!”
Oz rises slowly, Captain tucked against his chest. The cat’s gone rigid, eyes huge, but he’s not struggling anymore. Oz’s warmth is doing its work.
“Mrs. Pritchett.” I step forward, hands raised. “You’ve got this wrong. Oz found him. He was keeping him warm.”
“Oz.” She repeats the name like it’s evidence. “You named it.”
“Him. And yes, because he lives with me. He’s been living with me for weeks, and helping me with my work.”
Mrs. Pritchett’s laugh is a short, incredulous bark. “Goodness, you’ve gone mad! Hold still. I’m performing a citizen’s arrest on this creature!”
She advances with the rope held high like a lasso, her safety vest catching the moonlight. Oz bends and transfers Captain gently into my arms before she reaches us. The cat is light and bony, trembling against my chest. I hold him tucked close, one hand supporting his hindquarters, his fur gritty against my palm.
Mrs. Pritchett reaches Oz and grabs his wrists with the determination of a woman who has lassoed ornery livestock. Shewraps the clothesline around, loops it twice, yanks the knot tight.
The rope slides through his arms and pools onto the sand between them.
She stares at it. Picks it up. Tries again. This time she pulls harder. Her knuckles go white and her jaw sets in the way that means physics won’t deter her.
The rope yet again passes through his wrists like a piano wire through jello, the knots tightening on themselves before dropping to the sand again.
Oz stands perfectly still and makes no comment. His surface ripples once with amusement, but he keeps his face smooth, his posture cooperative. He lets her work.
I should intervene. I should explain. But Mrs. Pritchett’s mouth is pressed into a thin line of concentration, and she’s attempting a square knot now, her fingers working with the grim focus of someone who won’t be denied a citizen’s arrest, and something about the earnestness of it stops me.
This is the most important thing she’s done in months. Possibly years. Who am I to take that from her?
Oz seems to reach the same conclusion. He adjusts his stance slightly, making his wrists more accessible, and waits with the patience of a creature who spent three years in a storage unit. The rope keeps falling through. Mrs. Pritchett keeps trying.
“Mrs. Pritchett,” I start. “Maybe I can explain—”
“Save it for the judge.” She doesn’t look up from her knotwork.
I don’t ask who the judge is. I suspect there isn’t one. Coyote Springs hasn’t had a municipal judge since 1998, when old Judge Henry retired to Yuma and nobody replaced him. The county sheriff is forty-five minutes away on a good night, and this is not a good night.
Mrs. Pritchett seems to finally realize the fruitlessness of her efforts. Her hands slow on the rope. She looks at Oz’s dripping wrists, at the clothesline pooling uselesslyon the sand, and her expression shifts from determination to frustration.
“That’s it. I’m calling Gary,” she announces, already reaching for her phone. “He served. He’ll know what to do.”
I try again to reason with her. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be happy to know Oz found his cat.”
