The Orange Hour

The surveillance van smelled of stale coffee and regret. Sarah checked her watch — 6:47 PM. The orange light of sunset filtered through the dusty windshield, casting everything in the color of warning signs and prison jumpsuits. She'd been sitting outside this suburban house for seven hours, watching a man who may or may not be selling corporate secrets to the highest bidder. The irony wasn't lost on her: a spy spying on a possible spy. Ouroboros with a paycheck.

Then there was the cat.

An orange tabby had appeared three hours ago, hopping onto the hood of her van with casual entitlement. It had settled into a loaf, paws tucked beneath its chest, and stared at her through the glass with unblinking judgment. Sarah had named him Gerald. Gerald knew things. Gerald knew she was thirty-four and living out of a suitcase. Gerald knew she hadn't called her mother in six months. Gerald knew she was considering accepting the counteroffer from a private intelligence firm that would require her to do things she'd sworn she never would.

"You look comfortable," she muttered to the cat. "Must be nice. No moral ambiguity in the life of a house cat. Just sleep, eat, judge humans."

Gerald yawned, displaying needle-sharp teeth.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Mark, the handler who had somehow become both her boss and the closest thing she had to a partner: "Subject's moving. He's got a meeting tonight. Factory district, warehouse 4. 9 PM. You good for this?"

Sarah looked at Gerald. Gerald looked at the dying light. She thought about the orange bottles of pills in her bag — sleeping pills, antidepressants, the things that made the job bearable. She thought about the orange jumpsuit she might wear someday if she made the wrong call. She thought about how easy it would be to drive away, leave the life, adopt a cat, become someone who didn't know what rendition sites smelled like.

Instead, she typed back: "I'm good. See you there."

Gerald stretched and jumped off the van, disappearing into the neighbor's yard. Some animals sensed when something was about to go wrong. Sarah started the engine. The orange hour was over. Time to be what she was. Time to see if tonight was the night she finally crossed the line she'd been pretending existed all these years.