Beaming my light, I scan the U-shaped configuration of shelves. Only partially stocked. Bare sections, empty jars. I’d venture to guess the Germans have raided supplies, hoarding all but the basics. I investigate what’s left.

Various herbs, petals, and roots sit segregated among glass bottles of myriad shapes and sizes. A mortar and pestle further evidence the crafting of homemade remedies. Among the smaller jars thankfully are pills. But with all of them white, they look practically the same. Most are labeled in a messy hand. Of what I can read, nothing indicates a sedative. Abbreviations and medical jargon, in a combination of Dutch and Latin, fail to ease my task.

I resort to inspecting powders, with no added luck. I even sniff bottles of liquids, the most pungent causing me to wince. After pressing through a wave of wooziness, I still find nothing recognizably useful.

Leaning back against a shelf, I groan. “Somewhere in here, there has to be—”

A scratching noise jolts me. I whip toward the door just as it swings open. My heart stops at the sight of two eyes, the pupils bright from my flashlight.

But only inches from the ground…

Thirza. The house cat.

“Jiminy Christmas. You scared the wits out of me.” I pat my chest as the beats within it restart, now racing as if to make up for those that were skipped. The gray feline lets out a whiny meow and winds around my leg, tail curling.

Relieved, I kneel and give her head a rub. “Let me guess. You managed to sneak in with me?” She meows as if affirming, clearly craftier at spy work than I am. “Well, come here. Let’s get back upstairs.” With plans to try again, late tonight and alone, I lift her up and carry her from the back room. I’m just past the counter when a lofty voice sings out.

“Thirza?” The side door is opening. A voice calls in Dutch: “Are you here?”

I duck to scramble into hiding, covering my flashlight. But the store lights flare and the animal bolts, clawing my hand. I suppress a scream as Mrs. van der Meer stares. Straight at my face.

“What are you doing?”

My heart is still racing. I’m formulating an answer when she swoops up the cat protectively, her eyes accusing.

I must look like a thief of her cherished pet. Oddly, honesty seems safer, to an extent.

“I was looking for some medicine is all. Something for sleeping well.”

“The truth,” she hisses, “or I’ll ring the police.”

“It is the truth. Sincerely.”

The cat purrs, snuggled up to the woman’s apron-clad bosom, but even this can’t prevent the deepening of Mrs. van der Meer’s scowl. “Just like the claims of your cousin? Her illness, her visit?” Her tone matches that of a teacher from my youth whose every query, whether academic or disciplinary, made clear she knew the answer.

It’s equally fitting now, I realize, from the mother of three grown boys.