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Suddenly, another girl appears. This one has strangely colored fur-hair, and she’s talking to Sad Girl. It’s instinct to wonder if she’s a fiend, but I don’t think so. Her expression is hard but her eyes are sad, just like Sad Girl. The real fiend enters the kitchen behind the glass—Angry Guy.

I don’t like him.

He smells funny and is constantly barking, and he makes me lay out here in the cold.

I press my ears flat to my head as I watch him approach New Sad Girl. My fur rises, puffing me out to full fluff, and I hope it makes me intimidating, because Angry Guy is getting that look on his face. That fiendish, angry look.

Pop!

I jump back, hissing at the loud sound that hurts my ears. Angry Guy falls over, slapping limply against the floor, and Sad Girl is howling. I’ve never heard Sad Girl meow before. It makes my hackles rise even more.

Angry guy doesn’t get back up.

Hm.

I pace in front of the door as I watch all the commotion going down in the kitchen. There are other men. Angry men. Surprised men. Big, strong men.

Fiends?

But one of them is gently cleaning New Sad Girl’s face.

Not a fiend.

Protector.

I swipe my paw against the window, but I’m not sure why at first. These are strange people with strange fur and strange meows, but I can be a protector, too. They’ll see, won’t they?

I watch as New Sad Girl approaches Sad Girl and yells at her. It makes me suspicious, but then she looks at me.

At me?

At me!

I puff my chest out to show her what a big, strong cat I am. A good cat. A cat someone could be kind to. A protector. A fighter.

Mew?

When she slides the door open, I dive for her knee, pulling myself up.

New Sad Girl catches me, pulling me into her chest, and we spend a moment staring at one another.

Slowly, she smiles.

3

MADAM OF MAYHEM

“ALipitor for a Percocet?” Scoffing, I push the cards back to Barb. “Do I look like I care about how well-fucked my arteries look? Come back when you have something real to sling.”

Barb, this dirty old bitch from North Side, grumbles, “I guess you’d need a heart to have cholesterol problems, wouldn’t you, Delores?”

“Guess I fucking would.”

It’s bridge night, and all of us withered old shits are sitting around a table with our pills out. Mr. Rosenstein has a pile of hydroponic pot that I could smell the second I walked into the room, and that’s what I’ve got my eye on tonight.

I’m just eying it up, sipping on my gin and grapefruit juice, when the Three Fucksketeers roll up.

“Delores Crane?” the big one asks, sending a shifty glance around the table.