“Hello there!” Grammy calls as she grabs the railing and pulls herself up the stairs. “We talked on the phone about the sweet kittens you have.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” She steps back and waves us into a house that smells like flowers. The woman can’t stop staring at my bare feet. I hadn’t noticed before how dirty they are.

“Won’t you follow me? The kittens are back here.” We walk around a corner, and she swings a bathroom door open. There are three kittens in a pile. Two are sleeping, and one is playing with its own tail.

“Grammy!” I say. “Can we take all three?”

“Oh, goodness no. We will not be taking three.”

“Can I pick one up?” I ask.

The lady nods.

I scoop up the one playing with his tail. He is pure white with four black feet, and it makes me laugh. “I’ll name him Boots! Look at his feet, Grammy.” His fur is so soft that I can hardly even feel it as I pet him. I’m in love.

I walk through the doorway, holding the kitten against my chest. He plays with the string on my sweatshirt. My finger scratches under his chin and he purrs. I never knew that a purring cat feels like a mini version of Henry’s generator. It makes me laugh again.

Grammy and the lady talk a bit about the weather and cats. Grammy starts talking about our car and how she prays every time she slides in but tells the lady not to worry. If the car won’t start in the driveway, we have AAA.

The woman’s phone dings, and she checks her screen. “I’m sorry. Will you excuse me for a moment?” she tells us, and she heads into the kitchen.

I hear loud whispering, and in a few moments, the woman is back.

Henry talks about wheels turning while people think on things—and this woman is thinking so hard right now, I can almost hear the gears. The little voice tells me that we should go.

“Well,” Grammy says. “Thank you for the kitten. We’ll be getting on our way.”

I take two steps and then I hear the woman sigh. A sigh is never a good thing. Never. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I just can’t.”

“Can’t what?” asks Grammy.

“I just can’t let you have the cat. I just don’t feel . . . like it’s the right thing to do.”

Wait. What?

“I really am sorry. I just don’t see this as a good match.” Then she reaches out and takes hold of the kitten.

“No!” I say, tightening my grip as the cat’s claws hold the strings on my sweatshirt. As if he doesn’t want to leave me, either. “Please don’t take Boots. He’s supposed to be mine. Please don’t.”

As she pulls the kitten away, I expect Grammy to say something, but she doesn’t.

“I really am very sorry,” the woman says, holding the kitten with one arm while reaching out with the other to grab the doorknob, giving us the sign to leave. The door closes gently behind us. But all I feel is a hard slam.