7. Roxie #2
Scooping her up carefully, I felt how light she was, how her heart raced against my palm like a trapped bird.
She didn't fight—didn't even mewl—just curled tighter, her spine a trembling wire under dirty fur.
Up close, the damage was visible: her right ear was nicked, and the pads of her paws were scraped raw, as if she'd been running over asphalt for days.
I tucked her inside my leather jacket, zipping it up enough to keep her secure but loose enough that she could breathe. Her warmth seeped through the fabric, tiny claws gripping my t-shirt as she buried herself deeper, hidden from the world.
I leaned back against the nearest lamppost, pulled out my phone, and searched for the nearest vet. There were only two clinics in town, and only one was open past five. Harbor’s End Veterinary Care , half a mile away. No reviews, but in a place this small, word of mouth was all anyone needed.
The clinic was a squat brick building wedged between a bakery and a closed hardware store, its sign painted with fading paw prints and a lopsided dog.
The waiting room was empty except for an elderly golden retriever sprawled across the tile, snoring softly while its owner scrolled through her phone.
The receptionist looked up, startled, as I stepped inside. “Can I help you?”
I tried not to sound as frantic as I felt. “Found a kitten on the road. She’s—uh—she’s in bad shape. Is there someone who can take a look?”
She nodded briskly. “Dr. Reuben’s still in. Just give me a second.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, then she pointed me toward a battered green chair by the door. “He’ll be right with you.”
I sat, clutching the kitten inside my jacket. She poked her head out, wide-eyed and wary, then disappeared again as the door at the back of the room swung open.
Dr. Reuben looked more like a fisherman than a vet—barrel-chested, sun-browned, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wore a faded blue coat and jeans, and his hands were thick, more suited to hauling nets than holding syringes .
He crouched in front of me, voice gentle but matter-of-fact. “Let’s see your little hitchhiker, hmm?”
I hesitated, then carefully unzipped my jacket.
The kitten tensed, then let out a tiny, uncertain meow—her first sound since I’d found her.
Dr. Reuben extended a hand, palm up, and waited.
When she didn’t bolt, he gently scooped her into his arms, murmuring nonsense syllables as he carried her to the exam table.
“Where’d you find her?” he asked, already running practiced fingers over her body.
“Back road behind the Anchor Inn,” I said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “She just—ran out in front of me. Almost didn’t see her until it was too late.”
He nodded, checking her ears, lifting her tail, pressing lightly against her ribs. The kitten shivered but didn’t struggle, her eyes tracking every movement.
He flicked on a small handheld scanner, ran it along her neck and shoulders. The scanner beeped once—then fell silent.
“No microchip,” he said. “Not surprising. Looks like she’s been on her own for a while. She’s underweight—maybe three, four months old. Got some road rash, fleas, maybe an old ear injury. But no broken bones. Eyes and teeth are good. Heart and lungs are clear.”
He peered into her mouth, inspecting her teeth, then gently pried open a paw to look at the pads.
“She’s a fighter, but she needs a meal, a warm place, and time.
I’ll give her a flea treatment, and we’ll check for worms. I’d run bloodwork if you were planning to keep her, but if you’re just fostering?—”
I looked away, uncomfortable. “She’s not going back out there. I’ll take care of her.”
Dr. Reuben’s voice softened a notch. “Good man.”
He weighed her—barely over three pounds—and scribbled notes on a clipboard. He checked her ears for mites, trimmed her claws, and wiped her face with a damp cloth. The kitten endured it all stoically, flinching only when he poked at the nicked ear.
“Probably an old fight or snagged on a fence,” he said. “It’s healed, but she might always have a little notch. Gives her character.”
He shot a quick glance at me. “Got a name for her yet?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I wanted to make sure she’d be okay first.”
“Smart,” he said. “Names have power.”
He printed out a few sheets—a vaccination schedule, advice for new owners, a warning about keeping her indoors for a few weeks. “Give her time. Some strays never really settle, but most just need proof the world’s not as cruel as it’s been so far.”
The bill was less than I expected. He refused my tip, waving me off with a gruff, “Spend it on the cat, not me.” At the door, he paused, softer now: “Thanks for not leaving her out there. Most folks wouldn’t bother.”
Back at the apartment, I set her down on the floor and watched her immediately bolt under the couch, leaving only her green eyes visible in the shadows. Smart girl. Trust slowly, keep your escape routes open, don't let anyone close enough to hurt you. Lessons I'd learned the hard way.
“Roxie,” I said aloud, and the name stuck immediately. She was small and scrappy and had survived things that should have killed her. It felt right.
I sat on the edge of the bed and studied the dark space under the couch where she'd hidden. We were quite a pair: two damaged creatures who'd found each other by accident, neither of us particularly good at being saved.
The apartment felt different with another living thing inside it, even one as wary as Roxie.
The silence was no longer quite so absolute—every so often, I heard the faint sound of her claws skittering across the floorboards, or the soft thump as she explored the unfamiliar corners of her new world.
I leaned back, just listening, letting the minutes tick by, letting myself believe for a moment that maybe having her here would make things a little less empty.
But the illusion couldn’t last. Eventually, reality crept back in: she needed food, a litter box, some scrap of comfort I couldn’t provide just by sitting there.
I glanced around the kitchenette—bare shelves, a box of stale crackers, a bottle of whiskey I'd been saving for the next time sobriety became unbearable. Even Roxie deserved better.
I exhaled, long and unsteady, then pushed myself upright.
If I stayed still much longer, I’d turn to stone.
And maybe it was easier to go through the motions for her than it was for myself.
Groceries, litter, something to pass for dinner and a reason to keep moving—one foot in front of the other, even if the future only stretched as far as the next meal.
The walk to the grocery store was short but somehow managed to feel like a pilgrimage, the cold air clearing the last of my hangover as I moved through streets that felt both familiar and foreign.
By the time I stepped into the harsh light of the store, my mind had settled back into survival mode.
All white tiles and muzak that made my headache worse.
I grabbed a cart and tried to look like someone who had a legitimate reason for being there, someone who planned meals and thought about the future beyond the next few hours.
I walked fast, eyes on the shelves, but I could still feel the weight of people's stares.
Harbor's End was small enough that everyone knew everyone else's business, and my little performance at Anna's bar would have made the rounds by now.
The whispers followed me down the aisles, not loud enough to catch the actual words but unmistakable in their tone.
I grabbed a six-pack of beer, telling myself it was for later, for when the edges of everything got too sharp again.
A frozen pizza that would keep me fed without requiring actual cooking skills.
A box of cereal I didn't want but that made my cart look more normal, more like something a person who had his shit together might buy.
I tossed in a jar of peanut butter for good measure. Balanced diet, right? Protein and sugar in one convenient spoonful. I hesitated in front of the organic aisle, staring at quinoa like it might bite me. No one in history had ever needed quinoa, but it looked respectable sitting in a cart.
“Thinking about changing your life?” a voice said behind me. Some guy I vaguely remembered from high school—baseball team, bad acne, now pushing a cart with two kids climbing out of it like feral monkeys.
“Yeah,” I said dryly, tossing the quinoa back on the shelf. “Starting with lying to myself.”
He laughed, shook his head, and moved on. The kids giggled as one of them dropped a box of cookies into his cart. Lucky bastard.
I turned into the next aisle and almost ran into Mrs. Callahan, the church organist, who peered into my cart like she had divine authority over processed food.
“Beer and frozen pizza,” she said, clucking her tongue. “You’ll starve before forty.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, lifting the peanut butter like it was evidence. “I’ve got protein covered.”
Her eyes narrowed at me over her bifocals. “Protein and regret, more like. ”
I smirked, pushing past before she could notice the cereal.
At the end of the aisle, I passed a display of Valentine’s candy already on clearance. I tossed in a bag of chocolate hearts just to see if anyone would dare comment. If I was going to be judged by half the town anyway, I might as well earn it.
The cashier was a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She gave me a lingering look as she scanned the beer.
She eyed the frozen pizza, beer, and cereal sliding across the scanner. “Stocking up, huh? Looks like the bachelor survival kit.”
“Don’t forget the peanut butter,” I said. “That makes it gourmet.”
Her laugh was genuine, the kind that softened the edges of my hangover. “Sweetheart, if you start putting peanut butter on frozen pizza, I’m calling the paramedics myself.”
The pet store was next, a small place that smelled like hay and kibble and the particular musk of animals that had been confined too long.
The owner was a cheerful woman in her forties who immediately started asking questions about what kind of cat I had, how old she was, whether she'd been to a vet recently.
I made up answers that sounded plausible, picked up a small bag of kitten food and a cheap plastic litter box, the kind of basic supplies that would keep Roxie alive until I figured out what the hell I was doing.
The woman kept talking, something about vaccination schedules and the importance of spaying, but her words washed over me without sticking.
I was heading for the counter when the bell over the door chimed, announcing another customer.
I didn't look up, just focused on fishing crumpled bills out of my pocket and counting out exact change.
But then I heard a familiar voice speaking quietly to the clerk, and my stomach dropped through the floor.
Elias stood near the display of dog treats, holding a small bag and discussing something with the young man behind the register.
He looked different in daylight, older maybe, or just more tired.
His silver hair was messed by the wind, and there were lines around his eyes that I hadn't noticed in the dim light of his living room.
Our eyes met across the small store, and I felt that familiar surge of panic mixed with something I couldn't name.
He looked at me for a long moment, taking in my face, the beer in my grocery bag, the set of my shoulders that probably screamed defensive and unstable.
His expression was calm on the surface, but there was something underneath that might have been concern.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that the words felt private, intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
I froze for a second, my mind going completely blank. Then I felt that familiar smirk twist my mouth, sharp and defensive and designed to keep people at arm's length.
“Feeling?” The word came out sharper than I meant, laced with bitter humor. “Since when do you care?”
He didn’t flinch, just kept looking at me with that steady, unreadable expression that made me want to smash something—or just bolt.
“You don’t remember much, do you?”
The not-knowing gnawed at me, worse than any hangover. What had I done? What had I said? How much of myself had I exposed while too drunk to hold up my walls?
I bristled. “What are you getting at? ”
“I took you home,” he said quietly, like it was a favor I should already know about. “You were?—”
I cut him off. “Look, I get it. You didn’t have to. I’m not your responsibility.” For a second, my anger faltered, replaced by something rawer. “But… thanks, I guess. For not leaving me there.”
His jaw tightened, but he just nodded, as if he knew how hard that was for me to admit.
I turned to the counter and tossed the bag of cat food down harder than necessary, the plastic hitting the laminate with a sharp crack. The clerk looked between us nervously, obviously sensing the tension but not understanding its source.
“That'll be fifty dollars,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
I pulled a handful of crumpled bills from my pocket and dropped them on the counter without counting, not caring if it was enough or too much. The clerk started to bag my purchases, but I snatched them up before he could finish, tucking the cat food under my arm and heading for the door.
The bell chimed behind me as I stepped into the cold air, and I could feel Elias's eyes on my back like a physical weight. I wanted to turn around, to say something that might undo the damage I'd just done, but the words wouldn't come. They never did when it mattered.