If. My stomach churns.

After she is gone, I tromp my way up and down my street, looking in all the trash cans and front yards. When it is obvious he is not in the neighborhood, I go back home, power up my laptop, and get on Craigslist. It’s not a super-active community page. Salem is pretty small. In fact, for all its rich history and reputation, Salem is the home of fewer than forty-five thousand residents.

I click on the Lost and Found section, then skim through it. Some of the featured pets have been found. Some are still missing. Nora is right. This is worth a shot. It’s been a few hours since Loki went missing. Enough time for him to venture out of this zip code.

I open an account, then roam through my phone for a picture of Loki. Embarrassingly, most of the pictures on it are of him. That’s what happens when you don’t have a boyfriend/friends/family/life. You become a cat lady at age twenty-four.

I make sure I choose a good picture of him. One where he looks straight into the camera with the seriousness of a self-important duke. In the picture, he is sitting on our windowsill, showing off those furry chins. I upload it to the site, then write a quick post.

REWARD. Missing since 10/20. Neutered male. Tuxedo black and white. May have a studded black leather collar. Answers to Loki or Lulu. Has a small piece missing on his left ear.

I sit back and read it. It reads fine. Clinical. Informative. But I want more. I want them to know Loki isn’t just a cat. Pets are never just animals. They’re family. So I add:

Please let us know if you see him. We miss him so much. Thank you.

We is me. Loki is my cat. Nora just took him under her wing because he and I were a package deal. We are both strays under her mercy. Lost souls moving in this world without any rhyme or reason.

Nora, with her big smile and even bigger heart. We’ve been rooming together for almost five years now, and I know that she is ready to start her next chapter in life. She wants to move in with Colt.

Every week, I try to muster up the courage to tell her that she can. That I’ll be fine. But the truth is, I might not be. The truth is, I’m not really fine. Most days, I feel like a flower cut from the stem, midwilt. Not dead yet, but unable to grow further.

I click on the mouse. My ad has been posted. I copy and paste it onto Facebook, just in case.

I can’t believe I have to go to work now.

Whoa. Work. I forgot all about work. I look up at the overhead clock hanging in our tiny open-plan kitchen, and it’s seven forty-five. Shit.

I run to my room, stumbling over one of Loki’s squeaky toys in the process, and slip into a long black dress and a matching cape—black on the outside, burgundy on the inside. I pull on my lacy black gloves, screw on my witch hat, and lace my boots before unzipping my duffel bag to ensure I have everything I need.