“I know,” I murmur to her, my back turned to Mr. Rochester. It feels like me and the kitten are in this thing together. Sure, the guy saved the kitten’s life, but he doesn’t seem very invested in her survival. He stands there watching me like we’re a television show. Like a survival reality show where they throw a girl and a kitten in the ocean to see if they live. “I know you’re cold right now. And probably freaked out. This place is scary, but you’ll be okay.”

“Are you planning to cook him for dinner?” Mr. Rochester asks amiably.

“Listen.” I carefully lift the kitten from the water and dry her off using the dish towels, one by one. I try to move quick so she’ll get warm, but I also have to be careful. She feels like he’s made of toothpicks. One wrong move, and she’ll snap. “There’s no business underneath, so I think we can assume she’s a girl. And you could be helpful by getting some warm milk or whatever it is cats like to eat instead of just criticizing what I’m doing.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back.

I don’t have a ton of experience with job interviews. I worked at the diner near my foster home and as a cashier at a grocery store when I moved out, but those weren’t really interviews. I filled out an application and got a call back. The nanny agency interviewed me several times, but they seemed okay with my rambling answers about taking care of my foster siblings and babysitting and volunteering at the food bank. Despite my relative inexperience with interviews, I feel like talking back and asking him to get a bowl of milk is probably not the best thing to say.

But when I turn around, he’s already reaching inside the wide stainless steel fridge. Even in this quick glimpse I can see that it’s mostly empty. He does find a carton of milk, half full. In a few moments he’s found a saucer that he pours into.

“Thanks,” I murmur, accepting the saucer from him. I wrap the kitten like a burrito using the last dry dish towel and then set her down in front of the milk.

She shoves her face into the liquid, making her nose white.

I can’t help it. It makes me laugh, but then I catch Mr. Rochester’s eye. He has a strange expression. Strange because it’s less severe and judgy than the one he’d had a minute before. As soon as he sees me looking at him, he grabs the milk and stows it back in the fridge.

Once the kitten understands the way milk works, she laps it up.