I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.
"She's sleepin' on the floor."
I pressed the gas.
Lancaster Feed was just off the main drag—couldn't throw a boot in this town without hittin' something our family had touched—and I pulled into the gravel lot still havin' a full and robust conversation with nobody. By the time I cut the engine, I'd talked myself into this three separate times and back outta it twice. The only conclusion I'd reached was that a grown man of thirty-five should not be this worked up about a twelve-week-old cat sleepin' on his sweatshirt on the floor.
And yet.
There I was.
Not my proudest moment, TBH.
The bell above the door gave its usual half-hearted jingle.
Luke was behind the counter. He looked up, clocked me, and looked back down at whatever he was writin'.
"We're closed."
"It's ten in the morning."
"For you, we're closed."
I ignored him and made for the back of the store.
I'd stood in this exact spot—this same worn linoleum, this same grain-and-molasses smell hangin' in the air—about two months ago, starin' down bags of dog food and tryna figure out my entire life.
Same aisle.
Different animal.
Cat food.
There were fewer options than the dog food situation, which shoulda made this easier.
It did not make this easier.
I crouched in front of the bottom shelf and picked up a bag, turned it over, read the ingredients like they meant somethin' to me. Put it back. Picked up another.
"You need somethin' or are you just hauntin' my store?"
Luke had materialized at the end of the aisle without a sound. Arms crossed. Default expression, which was to say, no expression at all.
"Does a cat prefer wet food or dry?" I asked.
He paused. "How old?"
"Twelve weeks."
"Wet. Or a mix."
I nodded and reached for a variety pack. Then stopped.
"What about—does it matter what flavor?"
Luke stared at me for a long moment. "Brody."
"I'm just askin'."
