“We could take her, but if we couldn’t find a home for her, we’d have to…” She drags a finger across her neck, like Athena is destined for beheading.

I take a physical step back. “Come on, Athena. Back in your carrier.”

“Maybe put up some found posters around town?” she suggests. “And stop by at the diner and let them know. The post office, too. And the market. All around town, really. Ask around. If someone’s lost a cat, people will be talking about it.”

Athena steps back into the carrier and takes a seat. I shut the door before any heads can roll.

Donna takes my cellphone and taps away at the computer—presumably, Athena is now on the lost and found register.

“See you again,” she says. “Maybe up at the Colorado Club.” She smiles wide, and then holds her finger over her mouth, like it’s a secret.

* * *

After I exit the vet’s office, I look up and down Main Street, trying to orient myself. Last time I was here, I was only focused on getting out of my wedding dress. I didn’t bother figuring out the lay of the land. When I see a sign for pancakes, my stomach starts to rumble. It’s fate, just like everything else since the bus dropped me off.

The Galaxy Diner is as cute as can be. The floors are black-and-white checkered tile and the chairs are cherry red. There are booths by the window and tables in the center of the restaurant. It’s not busy, but a handful of patrons are scattered through the space, enjoying waffles and coffee and whatever that delicious smell is…

“Take a seat,” a woman with a pencil in her hair calls over the counter. “I’ll be over in a second.”

I slide the cat carrier into a booth and follow it. “Be a good cat,” I whisper. “I don’t want to get thrown out before I get coffee and pancakes.”

Athena gets the memo because I don’t even get a meow in response.

I glance up at the ceiling and see lots of different-colored spheres hanging from the ceiling. I guess that’s what gives the diner its name.

Rachel, if the name embroidered on her shirt is accurate, comes over, takes the pencil from her hair and asks for my order. I scan the menu and realize I’ve never ordered my own food at a restaurant, let alone dined on my own. Frank always ordered for me if we went out, and the two times we went out to eat as a family, Mom ordered for all of us.

“Are the waffles good?” I ask.

“They’re great,” Rachel replies.

“Maybe the pancakes…” I’m not sure. I could just do eggs. “What’s the chef’s specialty?”