The cigarette burns down almost to the filter and she is tempted, as always, to pinch between her thumb and finger the tiny molten nub within the ash, let it burn through the dermal layers, feel the pain. Feel. But she crushes it, as always, with the heel of her boot, picks up the damage and tosses it into a bin outside the hush of hospital doors.

Sorry, Coop.

And although her mother-in-law has never spoken in judgment about her smoking, not even given a disapproving glance, she speaks to her, too, as she crosses the divide between worlds.

Sorry, Laura.

4

Laura

The early-morning streets are a mess. Her neighbourhood’s annual verge collection brings out polite recyclers by day and ruthless scavengers by night. She swerves to avoid debris as she pulls out from the driveway, the contents of an up-ended tangerine suitcase from the house opposite spilling onto the road—videocassettes, mostly, boxless and broken. Shiny ribbons of drama billow and snap in the wind.

There’s an elaborate-looking piece of exercise equipment on Gideon’s verge, something with pulleys and steps and footrests. Laura blinks. Gideon? She shakes the image from her head. None of my business, she tells herself. The carpet-covered thing next to it—she knows what that is: a cat’s scratching post, never used. He prefers my armchair, Gideon told her with a rueful what-are-you-going-to-do? shrug.

It was because of the cat that she’d met Gideon when he moved in a few months ago. A terrible noise was coming from her patio, like an animal in pain. She’d peeked out from the blind, expecting something more than one small cat. There he was on the table, green eyes blinking, beautiful, sleek and loud. He rumbled when she approached, tentatively patted his head and turned the collar round to read the tag: Allee-Cat. She squinted, read again. Definitely Allee. And the address—just two houses away. The Martins’ old house.

Gideon had grinned when he answered the door, an ageing hippie in a long woollen cardigan and jeans. He folded his arms and shook his head at her awkward armful of purring cat. Well, sir, look at you. Pretending to be lost again. Shameless!

She’d asked him what was wrong with the cat. Why does it make that howling noise?

Gideon just laughed. He’s a Burmese, it’s what they do.

I couldn’t help noticing … She nudged the collar as she handed the cat over. Allee?

He grinned again. Long story. Bore you with it over a glass of wine some time?

~