Page 4 of Stone’s Cage

"I live in New York City," sounds romantic, but it's not here in the river alleys between the buildings and the muck. The wind blows off the river and turns up a whole host of smells no human should ever have to breathe. She coughs and holds her nose with one hand.

"Come on," I say, "just follow me."

"I'm not following you anywhere," she says again, as the tiny tabby pushes its head out of the top of her hoodie like a surprised prairie dog. The girl is petite, coming just to my shoulders. She shakes her head and ringlets coil around her face.

"That's your decision," I say. "Follow me and then decide if you're hungry. If you're hungry, you'll know where to find food."

She looks away, which prompts my, "There's the shelter four blocks over."

I know the homeless shelter is for shit, unless you want to go lie on urine soaked mattresses and have your integrity ripped out. If I was trying to freak her out, I succeeded. There's something in the way she's looking at me—the way her eyes are widening, and I realize she's never been to the shelter. Or even a shelter. She's never even thought of it. With one hand on the kitten's head, the other holding the tiny body to her, I decide there is no way she is going to go there anyway.

Glancing at my watch, priorities align with time. It's twelve-twenty. "I gotta get up in seven hours and I'm not leaving you out here. Or this one," and reaching over, I pluck the little ball of fur from her.

"Hey!"

"You'll know where to find her."

"His name is Tig."

"Whatever. I'll take care of him."

"He's mine, give him back," she says and reaches for him.

The kitten squirms in my hand and I tuck him up against my chest, taking a step back. "You can't keep him safe."

I could tell from her face she knows I'm right. The little tabby meowed again and tried to nuzzle my face. "Where'd you find him?"

"Where do you think?" she says and suddenly I realize she's scared. All this annoyance masks fear. I know, because I was the most annoyed thirteen- year-old in the world growing up here. And I was scared shitless most of the time.

"How can I get him later?"

"Follow me."

I take her swallowing and a tiny nod as permission to continue. "All right. I'm gonna take the lead. I'm making a left around that corner."

That's it. I've offered her a ticket out, at least for the night. And she can take it or leave it. Holding the kitten against my chest, I turn left on to the street and don't hear a thing behind me. My sneakers are silent on the sidewalk. Somewhere, a siren calls and cop lights flash staccato blue and red down the next street. There's shouting off to the left as a group of people clump together, a few peel away, and they regroup. She'll never be able to find me if she's not right behind and I'm about to make another turn and duck right down the next alley.

I slow down just at the corner, waiting to see if she's going to appear out of the alley. Just one last chance for her to follow me. But she's not there. There's only a cold breeze flogging trash piled against the sides of the buildings.

I walk home, suddenly irritated I have this kitten and not her. I eat cold chicken, chop a little for Tig, shred newspapers in a shoe box lined with a plastic bag and hope he shits in it and try not to think of her. But my mind flits back to her constantly. Then I realize it never has strayed. There's the festering truth she's out there somewhere with trash cans, rats, addicts, and men that would hurt her, and women who would pretend to be her friend.

Who the hell is she? When she tilted her chin up so she could meet my gaze, she had stood too close—just an inch or two inside my invisible boundary and my groin had felt it. She seemed so vulnerable, so lost, so out of place.

And her skin looked so soft, her breath smelled sweet. And then there were those eyes: golden.

I stare at the ceiling for a long time. I didn’t eat the rest of the chicken breast or cold baked potato in case she showed up and now my stomach feels hollow. The kitten ate the small scraps of skin that was left and now is curled up against my stomach, breathing in little, light gusts. At least he's safe. But that girl. She doesn't want my food. She doesn't want my help.

And yet, I loved it when she let me into her confidence, explaining her surprise with the little guy's "Claws."

Shit.

Chapter Three

Lily

There's no way I would let him do anything for me. There's no way. I decide that early on. But I stand there for a moment, caught off guard when he takes Tig from my zippered hoodie. As his arm comes up, I see the tattoo. First, he's talking to me about following him and the next thing he's holding Tig and I can see it is on the inside of his forearm. Small, tight, stark in the filtered streetlight is exactly what I'm looking for: a blue worm with a fish hook through it.

This is the guy I've been looking for. Older, not Shreves, but high up and not an ass-wiper like some other guy named Juice I heard about. I stand there waiting to see what would happen next. What happens is he looks at me with these burning blue eyes that almost scorch. I look away.