Page 222 of All Packed Up

Tate led her to one of the plexiglass cages, and opened it quietly before scooping a tiny figure out. He turned, and Wendy cupped her hands around her mouth at the sight of her.

She was so little, there was no way she was older than four or five weeks old. Pale orange with scraggly stripes lining her back, she stared up at Wendy with big yellow eyes.

“Wendy, meet Brass,” Tate offered.

“Brass?” she asked, a hint of humor in her tone.

Arlo cleared his throat. “Yeah. Brass and Knuckles.”

Wendy lifted a hand to her lips as the name clicked. “You’re not serious,” she said, eyes already filling with tears.

“Deadly,” Tate teased.

“No way!” she cried, reaching toward Tate, to the tiny orange kitten, and cupping her in her hands. “She’s ours?”

The kitten’s yellow eyes were wide, and as she stared at her, she let out the tiniest mew, and another ugly sob escaped Wendy. “She’s so cute,” she blubbered. “You got me a kitten. Oh my god. Wait, is she sick?” she cried, turning the creature in her hands as if she’d be able to find what was wrong with her.

“Nah, I just wanted this to be a surprise. You know the area pretty well now, I was worried you’d figure it out if I didn’t come up with something.”

“She’s okay?” she questioned again.

“Completely healthy.”

“And she’s ours?”

“If you want her.”

Wendy ate dinner with the kitten in her lap.

Brass grumbled and mewed in her angry kitten way whenever Wendy stopped her from stealing a piece of her takeout, and she could hardly take her eyes off her tiny form.

“She’s so small. I love her already,” she admitted.

“She was the runt of the litter, the only one that survived,” Tate admitted.

Her heart sank at the sad news, and she picked the baby up to cuddle her to her chest.

“She’s tough. That’s why we picked the name.”

“But why keep her? Couldn’t you just adopt her out? Not that I don’t want her,” she rushed to correct, holding the kitten closer.

This was her damned cat. Too late now, but she was still curious.

Tate and Arlo shared a look before staring at the small kitten. “She reminded us of someone,” Tate began.

Arlo followed him with, “A fighter, y’know?”

Wendy stared across the small table at them, the kitten starting to purr against her chest, and her heart swelled so big she thought her chest would explode. Instead, tears welled in her eyes again before she turned her head away.

“I’m tired of crying, so you’re not allowed to pull anymore stunts like this,” she whined.

Tate’s and Arlo’s chairs scraped against the floor as they moved closer, as they buried her between them with sweeter words and a head kiss or two, but she was crying so hard it was difficult to tell.

“We don’t mean to make you sad,” Arlo admitted.

“I’m not sad,” she complained. “I’m happy. Too happy,” she confessed. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop but it never does. You just keep getting better and better.”

She lowered her head to the tiny creature in her hands. “And now Knuckles has a friend to cheer him up. Brass Knuckles,” she sobbed messily. Ever since they’d come back to the city, Knuckles had been missing Daisy, making his depression known with the loud crying he did as he searched every corner of the house for his favorite cuddle buddy that he wouldn’t find.