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As I’m taking out my keys, the door next to mine opens, and my neighbor—a tall, light-skinned Black woman maybe eight or nine years younger than me—steps halfway into the corridor, wearing a white terry cloth robe. She moved in a couple of months ago, and though we’ve said hello to each other, we’ve never gotten past that and I don’t know her name.
“Hi,” she says, propping her door ajar with a bare foot. “Did you knock a little earlier? I was in the shower.”
“Yeah, sorry to bother you. I’m searching for my cat. I think she must have bolted out of the apartment this morning.”
“That’s awful,” she says, sounding truly sympathetic. “I was in and out a few times today, but I didn’t see her.”
“Did you notice anything weird today?” I ask. “People coming and going?”
“Oh, boy.” She puts a palm to her forehead. “Now that I think of it, someone was moving in a couch, and they had the front door and vestibule door propped open for a while. Maybe your poor cat got out then.”
Instinctively, I let out a loud groan. “How am I ever going to find her? She could be anywhere.”
She shakes her head. She’s stunningly beautiful, even without any makeup and with her super-short hair still wet from the shower. “She’s probably very close by. When indoor cats escape, they never go far away. But they tend to hide really well, which means you have to look hard.”
“Do you have a cat, too?”
“No, but I worked in a vet office part-time during high school. I have a bit more studying to do tonight, but if you want to search outside, I can help for a while.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, touched by the offer, though there’s no way I’m going to take her up on it. “Why don’t I start on my own and see how I do.”
“And be sure to go online. Cities all have sites where you can post about lost pets, and New York might even have them by neighborhood.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“I’m Mikoto Harris, by the way.”
“Skyler Moore... and thanks again.”
I let myself back into the apartment and take my laptop to the couch. Within a couple minutes of searching, I turn up a Facebook page for lost and found pets in downtown Manhattan, where I post the photo of Tuna, along with a written description of her, the area where she disappeared, and the promise of a seventy-five-dollar reward. But if my neighbor is right, Tuna hasn’t gone far, and I might be able to find her myself. Since I’m still in my meet-my-fate outfit, I change into jeans, a sweater, sneakers, and fleece jacket, grab the one rinky-dink flashlight I own, and head down to Seventh Street.
Keeping Mikoto’s advice in mind, I do a slow, methodical search of nooks and crannies, jabbing the beam into corners, around stoops, trash cans, and outdoor restaurant seating, and even under parked cars. After I strike out on both sides of the block, I cross Avenue A and enter Tompkins Square Park, where some dogs are still having their evening walk. I cover the whole park, using the paths but pointing my beam around bushes, tree trunks, chess tables, and playground equipment. Once I think I spot Tuna streaking behind a bench but realize with a sickening sensation that it’s actually a rat, one big enough to eat Tuna for dinner rather than the other way around.
The temperature has dropped in the time I’ve been outside and I’m shivering now, but I force myself to keep going along Avenue A, then return to Seventh Street and search there again, as well as a stretch of First Avenue.
After an hour and a half of fruitless canvassing, I finally give up and return home. Though my teeth are chattering, my heartsickness makes me not mind the cold. Back in my apartment, I check online to see if anyone has messaged me through the Facebook page, but there’s no response. I’m just about to start making a flyer to distribute in the neighborhood when there’s a tap at my door, and I jerkback in anticipation, praying someone is standing on the other side with a squirming cat. But when I inch open the door, I find Mikoto, solo, on the other side.
“Any luck, Skyler?” she says as I open the door wider. She’s wearing a luxurious-looking sweatshirt and a pair of pale gray yoga pants, and her hair has dried in a hip, spiky style.
“Nope,” I say, hearing the catch in my voice. “But I’ve posted her picture online. And I thought I’d make some flyers, too, and pass them out to stores in the neighborhood.”
Mikoto’s eyes dart from my face and her brow wrinkles.
“You don’t think flyers are a good idea?” I say, confused by her expression.
“No, I mean... your cat,” she whispers, still looking over my shoulder. “She’s right over there.”
I spin around, and to my total shock, discover Tuna paused on the threshold between the living room and bedroom. As she eyes us inquisitively, letting out a plaintive meow, relief floods through me. I drop to the floor and put out my hand to Tuna, beckoning her to come close. Rather than simply offering me her usual resting bitch face, she scurries toward me and seems to greedily accept the strokes I offer her.
“Where have youbeen?” I exclaim, scooping her up. Has she pulled a disappearing act just to torture me for some reason?
“It looks like she’s been in the bedroom,” Mikoto says.
“But it’s the size of a postage stamp—and I searched every square inch. This is so weird.”
Mikoto smiles. “The crazy thing I learned about cats is that if they want to make themselves scarce, they can squeeze into the tiniest places. When I was working for the vet, these people found their cat hiding in an unfinished patio down the street, and some of the cinder blocks even had to be removed to rescue it.”
“But Tuna’s never done anything like this before.”
