"You are askin' me what flavor of food a twelve-week-old cat prefers."
"She might have preferences."
The silence that followed was the specific, weighted kind that only a younger brother could manufacture. Luke turned and walked back to the counter.
I grabbed the variety pack, the grain-free bag beside it for good measure, and followed.
Set them on the counter.
Went back.
Came back with a water fountain—the kind with a filter and the recirculating pump, because cats were supposed to like movin' water, I'd read that somewhere—and a bag of kitten treats with a picture of a real smug-lookin' tabby on the front that seemed like it knew things I didn't.
Luke's pen had gone still.
I went back.
The bed was pink. Not aggressively pink—a sorta dusty rose, technically—with a low rolled edge and a cushion that looked soft enough to warrant the price tag. I put it in the crook of my arm.
Beside it on the shelf sat a collar. Also pink. Small, adjustable, with a little silver bell on it. I held it up. Set it down. Picked it back up. The bell made a high, tinny ring when I turned it in my fingers.
Into the crook of my arm it went.
The toys were in a wire basket at the end of the display—a crinkle ball, a feather wand, a mouse that rattled when you shook it. I grabbed one of each and carried the whole armload up front.
Luke had not moved. He was watchin' me approach, jaw clenched right like he was holdin' his tongue by the skin of his teeth.
I set everything on the counter.
Went back one more time.
The ceramic food bowl was small with a hand-painted, floral border around the base.Princesswritten across the front in delicate pink script.
I looked at it.
It looked back at me.
I put it back on the shelf.
Walked to the counter.
Stopped.
Turned around.
Went back. Picked it up. Walked to the counter and set it on top of the pile and did not make eye contact with my brother.
Luke looked down at the counter. Looked up at me. Looked back down at the growin' catastrophe of pink merchandise between us. He picked up the bowl. Turned it over. Set it back down.
Then, without a word, he started scannin'.
I watched him work through the pile with the care, savorin' every second he had left before he had to say somethin'. Water fountain. Bed. Treat bag. He paused—longer than necessary—on the collar with its small silver bell, givin' it a slow turn in his fingers before settin' it down and scannin' it.
He rattled off the total.
I handed over my card, punched in my pin, took it back.
"She got a name?" he finally said, tossin' everything in a spare box for me to haul out.
