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“And it said,” I continue, ignoring her derision and sharing a little about the rabbit hole I went down the other night. “They’re psychopomps that ferry souls into the afterlife.”

“Talk about job security,” Widow says, coming to her feet and wiping her hands on her pants. “I hope mine flies smack right into a window and breaks its own neck.”

“Your windows aren’t clean enough,” I tell her.

There’s a call on the wind, a high warbling sound that reaches us from the woods.

“Gray catbird?” I ask, but Widow shakes her head, brow furrowing.

“Mockingbird?” I try again.

“You’re working too hard,” she says, looking toward the woods. “It’s just a regular old cat.”

“Really?” I come to my feet, carrots dangling in my good hand. The cry comes again, high, loud, and piercing. “It doesn’t sound like it’s okay.”

“Ava,” Widow says, a warning note in her voice. “A cat isn’t wildlife.”

I drop the carrots at her feet. “Neither is a horse.”

“Ava!” Widow calls after me, but it’s too late. I can hear desperation in that cry, and I don’t care that it’s a predator or a vector of extinction for its prey. I just hear the pain.

“Kitty!” I call, cupping my hands over my mouth as I approach the woods. It answers me, and while I’m not supposed to assign human feelings to animals, I hear hope in its voice.

“Kiiiiitty,” I call again. “Kitty . . . kitty, kitty!”

“Jesus Christ, why do people do that?” Widow says grumpily as she catches up to me. “It’s not answering to its species’ name. Did I call Panda by screaming, Dooooggy, dog, dog canine?”

I call again, and the Jerusalem artichokes growing at the edge of the woods start to sway, yellow blooms catching the evening light.

“Kitty!” I call once more, and a little black head peers out from the foliage.

“Hey there,” I say, keeping my voice low as I approach. The head swings in my direction and I get my first good look at it.

“Kit—” I go down on my knees about ten feet away, voice stopped in my throat.

“Shit,” Widow says quietly, from behind me.

The jaw is gone on one side, the eye right above it also missing. There’s an enormous bulge at the crest of its skull leaking pus, an abscess so large that it pulls the cat’s head to one side. Widow goes down on her knees beside me, extending a hand.

“Kiiitty, kitty, kitty,” she calls, no longer mocking me. The cat emerges from the grass, moving toward the sound of her voice, answering with a high, pitiful call.

“It’s just a baby,” I say, under my breath.

“I believe it’s called a kitten,” Widow says, then calls it once more.

It comes to us with an awkward gait, loping across the field. One leg is missing at the knee, and the tail drags low to the ground, all the skin stripped from it.

“Oh my God,” I say, watching as the exposed vertebrae drag across the ground, catching grass in between them. It gets to us and then collapses, rolling over to show its belly.

“Yeah, I know you submit,” Widow says, touching a finger to its nose. “Ava, go up to the office and grab—”

“A towel, got it,” I say, rising to my feet.

“—the shotgun,” Widow finishes.

“No,” I say, and I feel my chin jut out along with the word.

“I’ll do it myself, just—”