Anyway, that’s why Irene woke up every morning at four o’clock and drove from her small house beneath the Hollywood Hills down to the beach at Santa Monica. She was the only woman there, but nobody seemed to care. Out there, she was treated—to the extent she was treated at all—like any other surfer. Your sex was irrelevant; the only thing that mattered was to surf well. Today she surfed exceptionally well. The waves were big and slow, the way Irene liked them. She rode them for an hour or so, and emerged from the cold foam tired and exalted, like a warrior from battle. As she walked up the beach to the cliffs, carrying her heavy surfboard, she passed a man, bent down to examine something inside a clump of dune grass, who looked up at her and smiled. She recognized him. He surfed here often; first man on the water, most mornings. As acceptance went, it was a small gesture. Still, it was something. He was what she thought of as a typical California specimen: wide shouldered and underfed, earnest and deeply tanned, couple inches taller than Irene, wet hair slicked back from a hollow-cheeked face, the kind of face that stuck in your mind, that made you think you had seen him somewhere before. Every time she saw him, she thought he should eat more. She hoisted the board more securely on her shoulder for the climb up the path.

“Hey there! Miss!”

Irene swung awkwardly, bracing her foot on a firm patch of sand. The fellow stood a few feet below, looking up at her. One hand shaded his brow from the rising sun and the other hand cradled some object next to his chest.

“I don’t mean to bother you or anything, but . . . well, you don’t happen to be looking for a cat, maybe?”

“A cat?”

He moved his hand to reveal a small feline head, white fur and pink nose, crisp triangle ears. A patch of gray-brown tabby spilled down its forehead, and a ginger patch surrounded the right eye. “Well. Kitten, I guess. Not yours, is it?”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Found it huddled in the grass there.” He nodded at the nearby dune. “Must’ve got lost from its mother or something.”

“Of all places for a kitten.”

“Or else some bastard dumped him here.” He turned the kitten to face him, revealing a skinny, delicate rib cage and ragged fur. The white patches were immaculate, as if bleached. The head was so absurdly large for that emaciated body. The man rubbed his nose against the tabby patch on its forehead and addressed the tiny kitten face with just enough volume so Irene could hear him. “How’d you get here, little guy? Beach is no place for you.”