She had never felt anything ominous about the darkness up here before, but she didn’t like it now—especially with all her neighbors gone. She was about to turn and head back when she heard a rustling in the bushes at the far end of the Perrys’ yard. She whirled around and pointed the beam of light down there. There was another rustle, loud enough to make her think it was being caused by something bigger than a cat. She held her breath. A raccoon suddenly lumbered out of the bushes, making her jump. Quickly she retraced her steps back to her house.
“I’m going to shoot you, Smokey,” she muttered to herself, but she was really worried now. There was the possibility the cat had been hit by a car. After grabbing her keys, she headed out to the driveway. She drove up the street and circled the green several times, looking back and forth. She also drove along the side street that ran behind her house, and then the one behind that. There was no sign of the cat, no sign of anyone for that matter—though in several houses she could see the blue light of a TV pulsing through a window. A half hour later she let herself back in the side door of her kitchen, praying Smokey had returned. But he hadn’t. It felt like everything was starting to crash down on her.
At the kitchen table she held her hands over her eyes and tried to come up with a strategy. If the cat hadn’t returned by morning, she would drive around before she left for the camp, maybe even stick up a few signs. If she still didn’t find him, she would have to come back after the parents’ day activities and resume her search.
Please, please be okay, Smokey, she pleaded half out loud.
She locked up for the night and poured a glass of milk to take to bed with her. Before she went upstairs, she glanced at one of the kitchen windows, its screen the only barrier between her and the outdoors. They’d always left the ground floor windows open at night, but now the idea made her uneasy. One by one she lowered and locked them. As she shoved the final one closed, she heard the haunting call of a whip-poor-will, a sound that on any other night would have filled her with joy. Tonight it only intensified her misery.
Upstairs she changed into a cotton nightgown and crawled into her new bed. She’d brought a novel up with her, but her eyes kept sliding over the words. Every minute or so she’d set the book down and lean forward, listening, hoping for the sound of Smokey coming through the pet flap. Just once she caught a noise from outside—riffs of laughter from what she thought must be adolescent boys. At midnight she went back downstairs again, thinking Smokey may have slunk in, guilty as sin, but there was no sign of him.
And then, just before one, as she was turning out her bedside light, she heard Smokey meow from the floor below. In utter relief, she slipped out of bed, flicked on the hall light, and rushed downstairs.
The meowing seemed to be coming from the kitchen and it had a plaintive feel, as if signaling distress. It became more frantic-sounding, almost growing to a screech. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard the cat dart into the living room. Great, she thought. He’s dragged a half-dead animal in with him and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Come here, Smokey,” she called out as she stepped closer. The hall light only spilled into the entrance of the room, and she couldn’t see him. It was silent for a few seconds, but then the cat let out a wail from the far end of the room. Lake fumbled with the switch on a table lamp and when the light came on, she searched the space with her eyes. There was no sign of him.
“Smokey, what’s the matter?” she said, taking tentative steps down the length of the room.
Without warning, the cat sprang out from behind an armchair, and Lake’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. In the dim light she could see that the fur on his body was now a different color—a pale gray instead of black. As he wedged himself into a corner, though, she was horrified to see that it wasn’t