The Writer Comments on Her Cat

I can’t sleep…it’s night, and very late. I don’t know the exact time, but I do know that I’m very unsettled. It gets very dark out here, and the only guide during nighttime is the stars—and if you’re lucky, the moon.

Not that there are any clouds to cover the moon…it’s a clean kind of darkness, I suppose.

If you want an example of a dirty darkness, you should visit New York. I could scarcely breathe in that concreted cage that Emma calls home.

Scooter’s on my bed, pressed up against my thigh. His warmth is comforting in the night, when I can’t sleep.

Other times, I wake up and find two phosphorescent eyes staring into mine, and I jump up with a squeal of terror; this only elicits a cry from Scooter himself, and I finally realize that it isn’t a bloodsucking horror that has crept up onto my bed.

I keep worrying about the man downstairs…should I have stayed with him?

What if he wakes up and takes something from the house?

The sound of the floorboards creaking rendered me immobile.

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