Page 26 of Stolen Harmony
The clinic was a squat brick building wedged between a bakery and a closed hardware store, its sign painted with fading paw prints and a lopsided dog. The waiting room was empty except for an elderly golden retriever sprawled across the tile, snoring softly while its owner scrolled through her phone.
The receptionist looked up, startled, as I stepped inside. “Can I help you?”
I tried not to sound as frantic as I felt. “Found a kitten on the road. She’s—uh—she’s in bad shape. Is there someone who can take a look?”
She nodded briskly. “Dr. Reuben’s still in. Just give me a second.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, then she pointed me toward a battered green chair by the door. “He’ll be right with you.”
I sat, clutching the kitten inside my jacket. She poked her head out, wide-eyed and wary, then disappeared again as the door at the back of the room swung open.
Dr. Reuben looked more like a fisherman than a vet—barrel-chested, sun-browned, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wore a faded blue coat and jeans, and his hands were thick, more suited to hauling nets than holding syringes.
He crouched in front of me, voice gentle but matter-of-fact. “Let’s see your little hitchhiker, hmm?”
I hesitated, then carefully unzipped my jacket. The kitten tensed, then let out a tiny, uncertain meow—her first sound since I’d found her. Dr. Reuben extended a hand, palm up, and waited. When she didn’t bolt, he gently scooped her into his arms, murmuring nonsense syllables as he carried her to the exam table.
“Where’d you find her?” he asked, already running practiced fingers over her body.
“Back road behind the Anchor Inn,” I said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “She just—ran out in front of me. Almost didn’t see her until it was too late.”
He nodded, checking her ears, lifting her tail, pressing lightly against her ribs. The kitten shivered but didn’t struggle, her eyes tracking every movement.
He flicked on a small handheld scanner, ran it along her neck and shoulders. The scanner beeped once—then fell silent.
“No microchip,” he said. “Not surprising. Looks like she’s been on her own for a while. She’s underweight—maybe three, four months old. Got some road rash, fleas, maybe an old ear injury. But no broken bones. Eyes and teeth are good. Heart and lungs are clear.”
He peered into her mouth, inspecting her teeth, then gently pried open a paw to look at the pads. “She’s a fighter, but she needs a meal, a warm place, and time. I’ll give her a flea treatment, and we’ll check for worms. I’d run bloodwork if you were planning to keep her, but if you’re just fostering?—”
I looked away, uncomfortable. “She’s not going back out there. I’ll take care of her.”
Dr. Reuben’s voice softened a notch. “Good man.”
He weighed her—barely over three pounds—and scribbled notes on a clipboard. He checked her ears for mites, trimmedher claws, and wiped her face with a damp cloth. The kitten endured it all stoically, flinching only when he poked at the nicked ear.
“Probably an old fight or snagged on a fence,” he said. “It’s healed, but she might always have a little notch. Gives her character.”
He shot a quick glance at me. “Got a name for her yet?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I wanted to make sure she’d be okay first.”
“Smart,” he said. “Names have power.”
He printed out a few sheets—a vaccination schedule, advice for new owners, a warning about keeping her indoors for a few weeks. “Give her time. Some strays never really settle, but most just need proof the world’s not as cruel as it’s been so far.”
The bill was less than I expected. He refused my tip, waving me off with a gruff, “Spend it on the cat, not me.” At the door, he paused, softer now: “Thanks for not leaving her out there. Most folks wouldn’t bother.”
Back at the apartment, I set her down on the floor and watched her immediately bolt under the couch, leaving only her green eyes visible in the shadows. Smart girl. Trust slowly, keep your escape routes open, don't let anyone close enough to hurt you. Lessons I'd learned the hard way.
“Roxie,” I said aloud, and the name stuck immediately. She was small and scrappy and had survived things that should have killed her. It felt right.
I sat on the edge of the bed and studied the dark space under the couch where she'd hidden. We were quite a pair: twodamaged creatures who'd found each other by accident, neither of us particularly good at being saved.
The apartment felt different with another living thing inside it, even one as wary as Roxie. The silence was no longer quite so absolute—every so often, I heard the faint sound of her claws skittering across the floorboards, or the soft thump as she explored the unfamiliar corners of her new world. I leaned back, just listening, letting the minutes tick by, letting myself believe for a moment that maybe having her here would make things a little less empty.
But the illusion couldn’t last. Eventually, reality crept back in: she needed food, a litter box, some scrap of comfort I couldn’t provide just by sitting there. I glanced around the kitchenette—bare shelves, a box of stale crackers, a bottle of whiskey I'd been saving for the next time sobriety became unbearable. Even Roxie deserved better.
I exhaled, long and unsteady, then pushed myself upright. If I stayed still much longer, I’d turn to stone. And maybe it was easier to go through the motions for her than it was for myself. Groceries, litter, something to pass for dinner and a reason to keep moving—one foot in front of the other, even if the future only stretched as far as the next meal.
The walk to the grocery store was short but somehow managed to feel like a pilgrimage, the cold air clearing the last of my hangover as I moved through streets that felt both familiar and foreign. By the time I stepped into the harsh light of the store, my mind had settled back into survival mode. All white tiles and muzak that made my headache worse. I grabbed a cart and tried to look like someone who had a legitimate reason for being there, someone who planned meals and thought about the future beyond the next few hours.
