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hedge, too small for a cat. Maybe a bird or a squirrel. Lily tiptoed through the grass and left the plate of tuna on the ground close to the hedge. The cat would be able to smell it, and Lily would be able to sleep. But what if the cat were to come back? Shecouldn’t possibly adopt a pet. She could barely keep her own life on track. But she would figure it all out one step at a time.
    She went back to bed, realizing only when she got upstairs that her slippers were wet, a few blades of grass stuck to the soles. Josh would’ve complained and put the slippers in the wash, but instead she left them on the rug, a small luxury. Who cared if a little grass got into the house?
    Then she wrapped herself in the covers and lay in the darkness, feeling suddenly small and alone, and she thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a cat sleeping next to her. But no, a cat would have needs. A cat would grow old and die, or maybe it would die before growing old, as Josh had done. And she didn’t have time for a pet. She needed to get the local computer guru to set up the retail system for the shop. She needed fixtures. She needed to arrange her vintage displays. Dust the house, pull weeds, write bills—the to-do list went on. She half hoped the tuna would still be there in the morning, an indication that the cat had moved on, but of course, she found the plate empty.

Chapter Four
    Kitty
    I’m back. How could I leave her alone? I’ve returned for the promise of more tuna, and also for her unhappy heartbeat. Something is off in the rhythm of blood rushing through her veins. I’ve listened to heartbeats this sad before, only not on the island. Mostly in the city, where people often live alone in tiny apartments with high windows that could kill me if I were to fall out. Not that I’m afraid of heights.
    I trot up to a low bay window of the woman’s little yellow cottage. In the overgrown grass, a new sign swings in the wind, indicating a shop, not a restaurant. I can smellrestaurants from blocks away. Salmon, grilled chicken, maybe a crab or two. Does she have any food? I can’t tell for sure—this shop smells musty and complicated.
    I leap onto a rock for a better view inside. Two front rooms are full of clothes. They would make perfect scratching posts in a pinch. Dresses, scarves, hats. Big white statues decked out in colorful, scratchable clothes. Spirits of the lost and lonely have found sanctuary here in the dust and stains and folds. A young woman lingers in a long knit dress, then rises to the ceiling and fades away.
    A vague shadow slips along the floor, then up onto a table and expands, taking the barely discernible shape of a man. He’s watching the woman, sadness in his empty eyes. He can’t see with them, not really, but he senses the woman the way I can sense a mouse hiding beneath a bush.
    The woman looks toward him, as if she perceives him, too, but she’s staring at a dress on a statue behind him. She reaches right through him, and in touching him, she makes him disappear. Is she aware of these souls that inhabit her shop? Perhaps I need to warn her, but I can’t get into the house, can’t reach the doorknob, and a doughy woman and skinny man are coming up the sidewalk, stinking of denture cream and the dog they left in the car.
    I jump off the rock and move onto the stone path. If only the shop woman would open the door. At times likethis, I could use a thumb or two. I stop and pretend to lick my paw, while I secretly assess my situation.
    “Oh, look, George, it’s a poor little stray!” Just my luck, the doughy woman comes lumbering toward me. Do I look disheveled? I keep my coat groomed.
    “You could use a good brushing.” She stretches her arms toward me. Arms, so strange, all hairless and dangling. She’s the kind of lady who would give me a bath and dress me in doll clothes. I’m not going that route again. But I’m also not the type to dash off at the slightest provocation. No nearby bushes in