What the Cat Knew

The mechanical **bull** at Johnny's Roadhouse had thrown Marcus off more times than he could count, but tonight he just watched from the corner booth, nursing his third whiskey. His **iPhone** buzzed incessantly on the table—work emails, sympathy texts, notifications that felt like insects against the glass. He'd turned the screen face down an hour ago.

Outside, the neon sign reflected off wet asphalt. Inside, Sarah sat across from him, her **hat**—her father's old fedora—resting on the table between them like an offering. She traced the rim with one finger.

"He hated this place," she said, not for the first time.

"He loved it," Marcus corrected gently. "He hated that he loved it."

She smiled, something fracturing around the edges. "Same thing, maybe."

The silence stretched, comfortable and painful all at once. Their father had died three days ago—heart attack while mowing the lawn, the kind of mundane end he'd always joked about to avoid admitting he was afraid of.

Marcus's **cat**, Barnaby, had stopped eating that morning. The animal had curled up on their father's favorite armchair and refused to move, as if waiting for something. Animals knew. They always knew before humans did, their senses attuned to frequencies people had trained themselves to ignore.

Sarah reached across the table and took Marcus's hand, her **palm** warm against his cooling skin. "Remember when he made us ride that bull? We were, what, twelve?"

"Ten," Marcus said. "And he made sure the operator kept it gentle."

"Still scared the hell out of me."

"Me too."

The phone buzzed again. Marcus ignored it.

"You should answer," Sarah said.

"It can wait."

"Everything waits until it doesn't."

Marcus looked at her—really looked. The same gray eyes their father had had, the same determined chin. She'd handled the arrangements, the obituary, the goddamn thank-you notes. He'd just shown up, drank whiskey, and watched people throw themselves off a mechanical bull while pretending their lives weren't falling apart.

"I'll handle tomorrow," he said. "The meetings. You sleep."

She squeezed his hand. "We'll handle tomorrow."

Outside, rain began to fall. Somewhere, Barnaby was still waiting, still listening. The world would keep ending and beginning, over and over, whether they were ready or not.