The sound, it was more than a sound, it seemed to get inside him and fight its way out.
The truck had rumbled past him just moments before he heard the sound, a guy on the back tossing orange construction barrels onto the shoulder.
Past the train tracks, where once every two weeks the train made him late to work, just over the crest on the Broadmoor side, he felt the sound.
The sound came from a grey kitten, pinned by one of the barrels.
The kitten was wet and mad and scared, and Jack had pulled off his hoodie to wrap the kitten in, which made it less wet, but no less mad or scared, and he jogged home, roiling feline inside a cotton stagecoach.
Immediately inside the house, the kitten limp-ran for a hiding place, behind the wicker basket that held the magazines that hadn’t been read in years.
Jack went to the store and got food and litter and toys and treats.
He named the kitten Loco for its proximity to the tracks and its struggle in the hoodie.
Then he went back out to the store.
He bought lumber and nails, and he’d be embarrassed if people knew how much time and money he spent to get just the right carpet, both color and texture.
When Jack got home, Loco was nowhere to be found.
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