The Bullpen's Stray Cat

I'd been moving through my days like a zombie for six months when Greg called me into his office. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen had drained whatever color remained from my complexion. My father's old baseball glove sat buried in my closet somewhere, untouched since the funeral—a relic of who I used to be.

"You're not meeting targets," Greg said, leaning back in his leather chair. A man who'd survived three corporate purges by being exactly the kind of bull who charged first and asked questions never. "Either step up or step out."

I nodded, muttered something about doing better, and walked back to my cubicle. Maria was watching me from across the aisle—sharp eyes, knowing smile. The fox who'd survived alongside me, trading information after hours, covering each other's backs when the bull started charging.

"Heard you got the Greg treatment," she said, sliding into the chair beside mine. "Same time tomorrow?"

"I can't keep doing this."

"No one can." She pulled a bottle of whiskey from her desk drawer. "That's why they pay us the medium bucks."

We ended up on the roof, sharing the bottle as the city lights flickered below. A calico cat appeared from nowhere, winding between Maria's legs like she'd known her for years.

"That's new," I said.

"She's been showing up for weeks," Maria said, scratching behind the cat's ears. "Only when I'm alone. Doesn't like people much."

The cat looked at me, then approached. I'd never been a cat person—too much like the women who'd left me, too independent, too knowing—but something about the way those green eyes assessed me made me lower my hand. She pressed her forehead against my palm, and something cracked open in my chest.

"She's choosing you," Maria said softly. "That's not nothing."

The cat followed me home that night. I let her in, watched her leap onto my windowsill with impossible grace. For the first time in months, I didn't reach for my laptop. Instead, I dug through my closet until I found the baseball glove.

The leather was stiff, but my hand remembered. I went outside and threw the ball against the brick wall, caught it on the rebound. Threw again. My arm ached. My father's voice came back to me—*follow through, keep your eye on the ball*.

The next morning, I put in my resignation. The cat waited by the door like she'd always been there.

Some things, I realized, choose you back.