“I’m not sure. I think you’re supposed to peek at something underneath, but the cat doesn’t care for the idea. Charlie would know. He took it to the vet.”

“Does it have a name? Joe? Sally? That might be a clue.”

“We referred to the cat as ‘the cat.’ I’m sure Nell or Charlie would have come up with a name, but Lewis kept threatening to toss it out and neither of them wanted to get attached. If you think about it, I saved its life, a selfless act on my part.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I must say I’m surprised Rosie agreed to go along with the plan. Where are you going to keep it?”

William and Rosie occupied a two-bedroom apartment above the tavern. I’d never actually seen the place, but Henry assures me the rooms are small and dark and crowded with oversize furniture.

William said, “Oh, it’s not for me. I thought Henry would enjoy the companionship.”

“Does Henry know about this?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, boy.”

“You think that’s a problem?”

“Far be it from me to say.”

We drove for a while in silence except for the cat, which was now growling and making relentless work of canvas scratching in between thumps and flinging itself from side to side. I was trying to visualize Henry’s reaction, which I knew would be genuine and heartfelt and probably high pitched. I’ve never lived with a cat myself, but I’d always assumed there was paraphernalia involved. I looked over at William, saying, “What about a litter box? Isn’t that where cats do their business?”

He blinked. “That’s not necessary, do you think? Nell let it out in the backyard.”

“But we live on a busy street. The cat will get hit by a car. Henry’s going to have enough adjustments to make without the cat doing caca on his couch.”

“You may have a point. We better stop at the market. You can go in while I mind the cat.”

I think it was occurring to William that his plan was ill advised because his back problem seemed to take a sudden turn for the worse. He emitted a short yelp and sucked air through his teeth.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you at the house and come back?” The minute I suggested it I knew William would be too smart to introduce the cat without someone else close at hand. Henry would tone down his response if I was present.

“The pain comes and goes. Sometimes it’s no more than a mild tingling or dull ache. Sometimes a burning sensation. The urgent-care doctor said it could be due to a slipped disc or spinal stenosis. I’ll have to have tests.”

“You poor thing,” I said. To William, a “test” was the prelude to a terminal diagnosis.