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Marzipan launches out of the carrier, straight across the floor and into her lap. The room melts. Jubilee scoops the white Persian against her chest and kisses her. “My baby. My poor imprisoned baby. Did Daddy put you in kitty jail?”

Marzipan shoves her face beneath Jubilee’s chin and rubs so aggressively, Jubilee nearly tips backward.

Outside, the line loses any remaining sanity. Comments on the café’s livestream fly across a monitor near the counter.

NO WAY!

Marzipan LIKES her???

That cat hates everyone.

Marzipan said that’s my mom now.

Jubilee eyes me over Marzipan’s head with pure triumph. “Four years.” I roll my eyes.

She grins. “Skill issue.”

Maisie actually laughs. Not loudly, but several people near the counter gape at her like they’ve witnessed a lunar eclipse. This is becoming a problem. Or maybe I’ve stopped pretending it is one.

Once everyone recovers from Marzipan’s betrayal, Maisie takes over logistics. The first twenty donors outside were selected through the café’s registration link, their donations going straight toward food, vaccinations, medical care, and adoption fees. Four groups of five. Ten minutes each.

Security repeats the rules before the first group enters: indoor voices, hands sanitized, cats choose interaction. Nobody grabs me. Nobody grabs Jubilee. Or pets Marzipan. They don’t have a death wish.

The first group comes through the door, trying so hard not to scream, one girl seems physically ill. Jubilee greets them before me. “Hi!”

The girl bounces on her toes. “Oh, my God.”

Jubilee laughs. “That’s basically been my internal monologue all day, too.”

The tension breaks. Within seconds, she’s answering questions about her stockings, refusing to reveal the incriminating number of bows she owns, and letting a teenager take a picture with Marzipan. Meanwhile, I stand three feet away, holding Tartlet, who is attempting to eat my watchband.

I’ve become almost unnecessary. It’s incredible.

Group after group comes through, and the donations keep climbing. I may have promised to match the first five thousand dollars. One woman fills out an adoption interest form for a gray mixed cat. A teenage girl spends her entire slot sitting cross-legged beside a shy black cat who refuses to approach anyone else. Maisie quietly gives the girl’s mother an application.

The attention is useful. The money helps. But somewhere in the back of this café are animals somebody discarded, neglected, or simply couldn’t keep, and every time I bring people here, Maisie somehow converts celebrity nonsense into homes.

By the fourth group, I’ve drifted behind the counter while Jubilee sits on the floor, surrounded by three young women, Marzipan in her lap and Muffin sprawled beside her boot like he’s also defected. She throws her head back, and the sound of her laughter reaches me even over the espresso machine. Warmth spreads behind my sternum, slow and heavy.

Maisie sets a clean mug on the shelf beside me. “She’s pretty sensational.”

“Concur.”

I lean one hip against the counter and fold my arms. I’m aware I’m smiling. I can’t seem to stop.

Across the room, one girl points at my arm, and I know exactly what happens next. Jubilee grabs the girl’s wrist and starts explaining my pastry tattoos as if she personally commissioned them.

Maisie follows my gaze. “So right for you.”

I eye her from the side. “Total ten?”

She lifts her chin. “I’m the only ten woman in your life.”

“Mom?”

Her mouth hooks. “Mom doesn’t count. She’s above scoreboards.”

Fair. I lean closer until my shoulder presses against hers. “You’re always my eleven, Maise.” She pauses over the register. My sister would rather swallow a fork than openly acknowledge sentiment. “But Jubilee?” I nod across the café, where she’s now demonstrating her bow while Marzipan tries to climb her torso. “Yeah. She’s a ten.”