The kitten moves toward it and when she does, I scoop her up and put her in my jacket. Partner digs through her grocery bag to retrieve a package of almond cheese, which she opens with her teeth and then delivers to me. She isn’t cute, just black and small and serious. The kitten stares at me with tiny golden eyes. Her body casts a long shadow that bends on the curb and spills onto the street. “Get as low as you can,” she shouts, but I am already crouching. Partner watches from the sidewalk, her hands in her pockets, her buzz cut hidden by a knitted hat with a ridiculous pompom. I set down my grocery bags and peer into the hedge. The thing is wounded - I can tell by her gait. We are halfway home when I see it: a blur of black fur skittering across the driveway and into the hedge. My partner trails me up the hill, both of us weighed down with sacks of groceries, the plastic handles pressing into the flesh of our palms.
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