The Ethernet Thief

Nobody at Northwood High knew I was literally running cable through half the apartment complex at night. Call it community service, or call it a side hustle—either way, $20 per connection added up. My parents thought I was at the library. The library didn't have roof access.

The setup was simple enough: spool of Cat6, handful of crimp connectors, and nerves of steel. Mrs. Chen in 4B needed internet for her remote work. The family in 6C couldn't afford the ISP's installation fee. I'd shimmy across the narrow ledge between buildings, snake the cable through their window, and boom—instant hero status.

Then came the night I almost died.

Three floors up, wind whipping my hoodie, cable in hand like a lifeline. I'd made this run a dozen times. But tonight, my foot slipped on some moss-covered brick. I grabbed the ledge, heart hammering, fingers white-knuckled. My phone clattered out of my pocket and plummeted three stories down.

I hung there, calculating whether I could swing myself back onto the ledge or if this was it—this was how I became that kid who fell off a building running illegal ethernet.

Then I heard it.

Mew.

A calico cat appeared on the adjacent ledge, tail flicking, watching me like I was the world's worst performance artist. She crept closer, nose bumping my trembling hand. Her purr vibrated through the cold air, absurd and calming.

She didn't save me—I found the strength to haul myself up, shaking and breathless. But she sat with me while I waited for my heart to stop racing. She let me pet her calico patches while I re-spooled the cable, hands still shaking.

"Thanks, cat," I whispered.

I made the connection. Mrs. Chen got her internet. I got home alive.

The next night, I returned with a can of tuna. The cat was waiting. We became routine: me running cable through the dark, her watching from the shadows like a tiny, furry supervisor. I named her Packet.

Some things you can't measure in bandwidth.