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“And the chances that you’re going to be open to escorting Handsome to a shelter or his new home in a few months are slim to none. You’re keeping that cat, Cho. I can see it in your glassy, cat-smitten eyes.”
I purse my lips, but have to admit, “Fine. You could be right. But it’s relatively easy to move a cat to the UK. I looked it up last night. Way easier than Hawaii or New Zealand.”
He grins. “Awesome. I’m happy to hear that. I think you’d love London. And I know I’d love having an old friend close by.”
I’m about to remind him of our deal, but as I’m searching for the words to let him down easy, Rich Face opens the metal gate leading into the entry area, reaching for the plastic sliding gate without bothering to shut the other gate behind her.
“Hey, close the gate, lady,” I shout as I shift Handsome from my lap, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
I’m about to dash for the gate myself, but I’m too late, a fluffy white cat with a sparkly blue collar is already streaking through the entry area and out into the big wide world, summoning a horrified shriek from Amy at the check-in desk.
“I’ll get it, don’t worry,” Sam says, already up and running for the edge of the enclosure. He jumps into the air, clearing the waist-high wall without missing a beat and sprinting after the fugitive.
I rush to the gate, closing it tight and glancing quickly around to make sure all the other foster cats are still inside the pen. When I’m sure they’re all still where they’re supposed to be, I spin, scanning the crowded concrete expanse between the library and the busy traffic circle a hundred or so feet away.
For a moment, I don’t see a sign of Sam or the cat, and my heart pounces into my throat and thrashes there, like a pair of wrestling kittens. Then, suddenly, I catch a flash in my peripheral vision. It’s Sam, sprinting down the sidewalk toward the trees at the edge of the park, the white cat only a few feet in front of him.
I rush to the edge of the pen, clutching the top of my t-shirt in my fist and willing him to catch the fluffster before she disappears into the woods. If she ends up a stray, she won’t be safe in the park. There are tons of dogs that run loose off their leashes, and not all of them are as well behaved as their owners would like to believe. I was nearly mauled in the park last summer, all while Rabid Fido’s owner stood a dozen feet away, insisting, “Oh, he’s harmless. It’s cool. Don’t worry.”
But I was worried. Fido’s curled lip and slobbery teeth almost had me wetting my pants and I was at least three times his size. A dog like that would gobble up a little floof like that white cat in one gulp.
I bite my lip, torn between the urge to shout encouragement and to hold my tongue for fear of distracting Sam while he’s in the middle of the chase.
He’s close now, so hot on the escapee’s heels I expect a capture at any moment. But just as Sam reaches his arms forward, looking like he’s about to make a leap for the cat, she cuts hard to the right, veering into the bike lane. Sam follows her without missing a beat.
I shout, “Watch out for the bikes!”
But it’s too late.
The cat zips in front of two pairs of speeding bike wheels without injury. Sam, however, isn’t so lucky. The first bike collides with his hip, knocking him to the ground. The second rider, not having the time to adjust course, rolls right over Sam, who groans and curls into a ball on his side.
He lies still on the ground as the white cat disappears into the trees on the other side of the trail leading into the park.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sam
I’m not sure what hurts more, my internal organs or my pride.
I try to shift onto my hands and knees to crawl off the bike path, but a flash of pain from the middle of my back has me rethinking that plan. As I curl onto my side, my lower ribs don’t feel great, either, but I’m pretty sure nothing’s broken.
Except my dignity.
And my hopes of saving the day for Jess and one fluffy escape artist.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Jess’s knees drop into my limited line of sight from where I lie in a fetal position. A beat later, her worried face leans down to join them. “Are you okay? Sam? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, wincing as I pull in a deeper breath and fresh pain throbs through my back. “My ears are good. Not so sure about my spine, though.”
She pales. “Oh my God, that’s it, I’m calling an ambulance. Lie still.” She pulls out her cell, pointing a firm finger my way when I try to reach for it. “No, I’m serious. Don’t move a muscle. You could be paralyzed.”
“I’m not paralyzed,” I assure her.
“Or about to be paralyzed,” she says, swiping to unlock the screen, while keeping one wary eye on me. “That’s why they tell you not to move people if you suspect they might have a spinal injury. Because you could make it worse and something fixable could become something tragic.” Her eyes begin to shine as she adds, “And I’m not letting this become something tragic. Not because of me or a cat or that stupid woman with her stupid lips and boobs and earbuds in her stupid earholes.”
I rest a hand on her knee as she taps at the screen. “It’s okay. I really don’t think anything is broken. I’m just a little banged up. Give me a second and I’ll—”
“Hello, yes, my emergency is in Prospect Park,” Jess says to the person on the other end of the line. “By the big arch statue with all the cars zooming in a circle around it. The bike lane by that. Near the library.” She winces and shakes her head. “Right, sorry. It’s my friend. He was chasing a cat and ended up running in front of two asshole bikers who knocked him down and ran him over. He’s on the ground now and can’t get up.”
