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“I’m afraid to screw it up like I did with the club.”

“Do it just like you would if you were hunt-ing. Pretend it’s a deer.”

“I’ve never been hunting,” he confessed.

“You’ve never been hunting?” He sounded surprised. “Here, let me do it.”

Grateful, he handed him the knife and sat back. Darren took his place over the cat.

“Is he purring?”

“Don’t ask me that.” Darren’s voice cracked. The white tail flickered. Alex noticed something in the shadows, another cat. Clouds had covered the moon. It was very dark. He thought he could make out more than one in the shadows, and felt a chill. Darren twisted slightly. The tail stopped flicking. Neither one of them spoke. A strange sound hummed around them. The hair stood up on the back of Alex’s neck.

“What is that?” asked Darren. They listened as it grew louder, a low, growling noise. The clouds thinned around the moon and Alex saw them. There must have been twenty or so, all around them. Cats.

Darren saw them too. “What should we do?” he said. Alex didn’t answer. The noise grew louder. A cat rubbed up against him.

“They’re purring,” said Alex. They were. He had never seen so many cats. They purred collec-tively, eerily. They rubbed or sniffed at them and sniffed at the limp white corpse, as if paying some sort of gratitude and last respects. Darren and Alex stood up slowly and left.

At four a.m. Alex’s eyes pop open. They’re watering from the fumes. He hears a scratching noise, claws on paper. When he looks he sees the cat trying to cover the shit with the papers. The cat shit on the carpet next to them. Alex plucks the turds up in some toilet paper and flushes. It’s not wet globs like last time. He’s healthier already.

“Git,” he tell hims. The cat hides under the antique chair in the other room. Alex goes back to sleep.

The sound of his pager explodes. His eyes open again. 7:00 a.m. He splashes water in his face from the sink in the bathroom, then jabs at the pager button with numb stick-fingers. All ones line the display, 1111111, which means she’s on her way. He has no choice. He’s up. He grabs for his toothbrush and paste with deadwood hands and squeezes a glob of mint-flavored goo onto the bristles. Some lands in the sink and some gets on the sides of the bristles instead of the top. He wipes at it with cold fingers. Paste smears his hands. He raises the brush to his mouth and starts to work it. More paste appears on his cheeks.

Ptah! The taste reminds him that he’s forgotten to dilute with water. He spits, but there’s nothing to spit. His mouth is dry and coated with thick mint. He twists and smears chrome knobs as the gag reflex kicks in, dropping his head into the sink to splash at the stream. Dead hands help guide the water in. Once clean he wets his hair down. She’s close by, so he’ll wait to shower. Can’t have her pounding on the door while I’m in there. He pulls on a pair of shorts and a shirt. The cat’s still under the antique chair.

“Come on out, Lazarus.” He noses out, and when he’s half-way out and still can’t stand, he stretches his back against the chair bottom by pushing up with his forelegs. Once he’s completely out he drops on his forepaws, stretches out and arches his back with his ass in the air. Alex plods into the kitchen and retrieves the bag of dry food from the fridge.