It was a family tradition: second cake after the relatives had left. You ate a wedge with all the cousins, and then afterward, once cleanup was done, you could have whatever part of the leftover cake you wanted: just the frosting or just the innards or all the icing roses from on top . . . Zoe was not going to miss that. Those roses are mine, she thought.

“Don’t you think she’s getting a little old for second cake?” Mom said to Dad.

“I’m not too old for it,” Alex protested.

“Remember when we started second cake?” Dad said. “Alex was four, and it was the only way we could think of to keep him from scooping all the icing off the cake before the relatives finished singing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

I’m never outgrowing second cake, Zoe thought. That was a horrible thing to suggest. She was just getting taller and older, not transforming into some weird non-cake-loving person. “I’ll be right back,” she promised. “Don’t eat all the cake without me.”

She ran back up to her room, dumped the extra popcorn in the trash, and poured milk into the bowl. Kneeling, she nestled the bowl in the corner of the box. She hoped the kitten didn’t try to swim in it.

On wobbly legs, the kitten was prowling around the confines of the box. Reaching out a finger, Zoe stroked between her ears. “You don’t seem as scared as you were. That’s good. You don’t need to be scared with me.”

The kitten leaned against her finger as if she were so happy that Zoe was petting her. Most of the cats Zoe had met were standoffish, but not this kitten. She likes me! Zoe thought.

“I like you too,” Zoe whispered to her.

Climbing onto a mound of sweater, the kitten teetered, then toppled onto her side. Zoe laughed and helped her stand. Gazing up at Zoe, the kitten rubbed her cheek against Zoe’s fingers. She then got her paws underneath her and continued with her exploration.

Chin in her hands, Zoe watched the kitten reach the milk. She sniffed it and then looked back at Zoe. “Go on. You’ll love it,” Zoe told her. Extending her paw, the kitten batted at the milk. The surface rippled, and the little cat skipped backward. She inched forward and then swatted at the milk again, clearly fascinated.

Zoe heard a soft knock at her window. “Visitor,” she told the kitten. She climbed across her bed, unlocked the window, and lifted it.

Harrison, her best friend, stuck his head in. “Happy birthday. Or birthday-party day.” Her actual birthday was in two days, on Monday. Harrison liked to be precise about facts.