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“You wouldn’t catch me living in this stink,” Denise told him. “Bad enough to have to drive through it. I guess if you have to make a living, though, if you have a family to feed, some folks don’t have a choice.

“Me,” she said, looking over at the tomcat, “you won’t catch me tied down. Any more than you, right? Single, footloose, a little money in the bank, and I go where I want, when I want.” She didn’t seem to consider that cats don’t have money in the bank. Maybe she thought mice in the fields took the place of hard cash.

She’d picked him up early that morning at the rest stop, a long way from where he’d left his last ride. From the minute he’d approached Denise’s U-Haul, she’d been kind to him. When he hopped in the cab waiting expectantly for her to head out, she hadn’t even done a second take. She had simply laid a folded blanket atop the duffel, so he could be comfortable and enjoy the view. They had shared her burger and fries in equal portions, and her remarks to him were direct and comfortable—making him wonder what she would do, if he answered her.

But he’d never find out, his commitment to secrecy was way too deeply embedded. Caution was bred irrefutably into his every cell, passed down for thousands of generations, and reinforced by parental discipline. The occasional transgression of some individual cat, they all knew, was recklessly dangerous.

While beyond his partially open window the sea lay flat and gray, the sluggish waves smothered by the fog, on their left they passed an occasional small lake that, despite the fog, gleamed blue and clear against a background of dark pines, lakes with no houses around them, the surrounding forest dense and wild. He watched an osprey arrow down into the fresh water; a violent splash and it rose again with a fish gleaming in its talons. The great bird’s powerful flight made him dream of soaring high above the hills, effortlessly winging the long, long miles, high above the killer wheels of speeding cars and trucks—made him wish he could dive down out of the clouds with such power as that bird, drop straight down onto his destination. And the photographs from Debbie’s album filled his mind, the little seaside village with its sheltering pines and cypress, its white beach and fishing dock, the ocean bright and clear, so very like the home his pa had described for him, when he was young. That was the first place Pa could remember, from his lonely kittenhood.

He couldn’t be sure he was headed for the same place. For that one spot, on this vast coast, where Misto, facing old age, might have gone, in the way so many animals longed to do. He could only pray Misto had returned there, and that he could find him.

He had left Eugene three days earlier in the backseat of a 1992 Toyota Camry, sweltering in the lap of a fat old lady who smelled of mothballs and pee. Even when he lifted an armored paw and growled at her, she couldn’t stop petting and hugging him. He had stayed in the car because they were headed south, the woman’s daughter and son taking turns driving. And because they seemed a harmless threesome, didn’t seem like people who would hurt a cat. A prime path of learning, in a young cat’s life, was to listen to his own instinctive fears, to go with what they told him—or not, and learn a hard lesson.

He had picked up the little family just outside Eugene, just two miles west of the burned-down nursing home. Their car had been parked at a lunch stop. The family had sat nearby at an outside picnic table eating hamburgers, studying an unfolded Oregon map, discussing where to stay for the night. It was already late in the day, they had come down Highway 5 from Seattle, were headed over to the coast, to Coos Bay. He’d bummed some hamburger by charming the old woman, and then conned them into a ride. He hadn’t counted on the woman’s overheated lap and her endless petting. At Coos Bay, where they pulled into a motel with a lighted VACANCY sign, he’d streaked out of the car the minute the old woman opened her door, had vanished among a tangle of shops, small gardens, and garbage cans. Had sat among the overgrown bushes listening as they called and called him, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” He’d watched them set a half sandwich torn in small pieces, and a used Styrofoam bowl of water, outside the motel door. He’d slept hidden in the bushes ten feet from their door, listening to their blaring television tuned to an old sitcom, and to the frequently opening door as they looked for him, and to their annoyed and worried calls.

“Maybe this was his destination,” the old woman had said querulously, just before they turned out the light, “maybe he didn’t want a home at all, maybe he was just hitching a ride.”

“Cats don’t hitch rides, Mama. Go to sleep,” and the room went dark, leaving only the faint sounds of covers rustling as the three got settled.

They called him the next morning, too, before and after partaking of the motel’s free breakfast, but at last they gave it up. Leaving a torn-up sweet roll for him from the motel’s free continental breakfast, they went on their way. As the car grew smaller and then merged onto the highway, he’d eaten the sweet roll then settled down among the bushes just at the edge of the parking lot, waiting to cop another ride south. His dreams filled with pictures from Debbie Kraft’s photo album, shots taken when Vinnie was small, before Tessa was born, apparently before Debbie and Erik began fighting and carping at each other. Pictures of a shore that blended exactly with the tales his daddy had told him, pictures of a rocky cliff above the white beach, the blue and roiling sea, the white-crested waves.

There was no picture of the man his daddy had told him about, who brought food to the feral cats, who talked to them as if they could understand him. Misto had been only a kitten when he was part of that feral band, but he’d known enough not to answer back to the man. How could it be, that Misto had been a kitten in the same village where Debbie Kraft grew up, where her husband still spent part of his working year? How strange was that?

For months after he abandoned the Kraft household, after Erik threw one too many shoes at him, he had searched Eugene for his sisters and his daddy. He’d gone to the house he remembered, from when he was a kitten, but Misto’s scent wasn’t there. Even after he went to live in the nursing home, he’d go rambling at night searching for Misto, but he never found his scent; he hadn’t seen Misto now for well over a year.

Once, after the fire, he’d returned again to the Krafts’ house, imagining Erik might indeed have abandoned his wife and children as he’d sometimes threatened, imagining he could be with Tessa again. But, lingering in the overgrown yard and then leaping up a tree to peer in through the dirty windows, he’d seen and smelled the emptiness, the abandoned trash, the discarded clothes, and knew they would not be back. And he’d gone away again, missing Tessa.

After the “mothball woman” and her family departed Coos Bay, he headed south again, traveling on the berm and through the tall grass of pastures that bordered Highway 101, warily crossing the occasional side road. It was late afternoon when he’d come at last to a rest stop set beside the highway among the pine woods. He was paw weary. The clearing was deserted save for two cars parked together near the restrooms, beyond a cluster of picnic tables. A dusty willow tree sheltered the cinder-block building, while a second willow provided shade for a half dozen picnic tables with attached benches, all bolted to concrete slabs buried in the earth. Could you trust humans with nothing? The dusty earth was embossed with numerous tire marks crossing over each other, and these were dissected by lines of long, thin paw prints that stank of coyote. He’d backed away from these, and looked the two cars over, wondering about a ride.