“She was cold. Alone. She had every reason not to trust me.”
He looked down at his hands.
“But she looked at me, and she didn’t run.”
Then he said,
“I didn’t know what else to do except stay.”
That sentence changed something in me.
Because it wasn’t really about a kitten anymore.
It was about David.
This stubborn, overly logical man who had slept in a car and set alarms every two hours because a tiny animal had looked at him from beneath our steps.
“What name were you thinking about?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“Scout.”
“Why?”
“Because she found me.”
He smiled faintly.
“She was out there alone, trying to find her way. Then she found me.”
I looked at the kitten.
“Scout.”
She blinked.
“It fits.”
David looked at me quickly.
“So…?”
“So what?”
“We’re keeping her?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“You’re not going to explain why it’s impractical?”
“Oh, I’ll explain that tomorrow.”
“That seems fair.”
Then he apologized again.
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