“That’s going to be sore,” the girl pronounced after washing the place where the dog had nipped Min’s flank. The girl set out a very small saucer of cream. Then she left Min to further nurse her wounds and her pride.

Had she been asked, Min’s rescuer could not have explained why she had opened the window and encouraged the cat. It wasn’t as if anyone ever lent her a hand. Perhaps she’d helped because she was still feeling giddy over the whole dime she’d bullied from those two greenhorns the other day. Daisy hadn’t seen a dime in weeks. Months. She was generally lucky to get a penny for a pair of pickles.

“Don’t even think of keeping that cat,” Daisy’s mother declared. The older woman reeked of dill and the tang of vinegar and was preoccupied with great kettles that gave off enough steam to turn the apartment into a sauna. “We can barely feed ourselves.”

“I know. I know.” Daisy opened the window again. Looked out. The dogs were nowhere to be seen. “It won’t stay.” Of that she was sure, though Daisy would be hard-pressed to explain from whence her certainty derived.

Min merrowed her agreement with Daisy’s remark; she had no intention of staying. But she did inspect the small apartment, which was a flurry of activity—and nearly as crowded as had been the train station earlier. Min’s tour of the domicile required very little time; how long does it take a clever cat, even one with a sore hind leg, to explore three tiny rooms? But every step through that bedroom, parlor, and kitchen required care to stay out of the way of many pairs of feet.

One half of the sole table in the parlor was heaped with knobby green objects, which Daisy wrapped in bits of waxed paper and stuffed into a canvas sack. Another handful of humans sat at the far side of the table, rolling potent dried leaves into long sticks. These, Min discerned, were called cigars. The green things had an odd name that she couldn’t quite translate into Cat; it sounded like pickle, but surely not even humans used such a ridiculous-sounding word.

Min was grateful for her rescue and for the dish of cream, no matter how meager. She hinted for a taste of something else, but nothing else was offered. The humans in this place had an amazing capacity for working hard without taking sustenance. In contrast, the humans at Miss Maisie’s did very little but ate three times a day, sometimes more if you counted the French girl’s amuse-bouches, little afternoon snacks that Min was happy to help consume.

Seeing that there would be no further nourishment, Min meowed her thanks to Daisy for the open window at just the right moment and then was out that very window again, working her way to the pavement, tracking the now scant scent of Punk. Those dratted dogs had chased her a dreadfully long distance.

Though she dodged plenty of people and carts and wagons and noisy automobiles, Min thankfully encountered no more unfriendly canines on her trek. An old mutt nosing around a set of ash cans gave her rather good directions to the general area. And a sharp-looking Dalmatian at a fire station led her the rest of the way, right up to the back door of an enormous building called the Hippodrome. Dalmatians are always glad to go the extra mile.

Min had arrived at feeding time. Workers wheeled barrows loaded with assorted fruits and vegetables through a large door. Min’s instinct was to follow the food. As always, those instincts were spot-on. She followed the worker with the largest barrow—an entire watermelon teetered on top of an enormous heap of foodstuffs—and he led her into the cold, dark innards of the building. She caught a whiff of the Dobermans; thankfully, that was the only sign of them. She padded confidently past pacing tigers—greeting them with due deference—and bears and monkeys and even an odd barking creature that smelled like the sea, until she found the cage she sought. Though he was housed next to some larger, older creatures of his own kind, Punk was no happier. In fact, if it could be possible, he was even more downcast than when Min had last seen him.

“Merrrow?” Min asked permission to enter the cage.

Punk’s reply was barely audible. His large ears drooped, but he reached for Min with that long appendage, wrapping it around her middle, drawing her close.

“He misses his mother.” This gentle voice came from a gray mountain in the cage next door.

“They took him too young,” another voice further explained.

Min pondered this. While she herself had never experienced motherhood, she could remember back to her kitten days and the sweet weeks with her own mum. Despite having to compete for milk with too many greedy brothers, those had been tender times. And, as she had with all her litter, her mother had let Min stay until she was ready to go off on her own. Min shivered to think what kind of cat she might have become had she been taken from her mother, and taken too young. No doubt the worst kind: a scaredy-cat.

Several hours passed as Min did her best to comfort Punk. When he finally drifted off to sleep, she remained, hidden from human eyes in the dark of the cell. While he slept, the other creatures of his kind talked about their lives. Poor Punk had little to look forward to—hours of being chained to a wall, thrashings, tricks that required un-elephant-like contortions.

“He’s too frail,” the largest of the creatures, named Jennie, explained. “He won’t last.”

“There must be something we can do,” Min said.

Jennie raised her own shackled foot, skin scarred around the metal. “There’s no escape.”

The resignation in Jennie’s voice was more chilling than an ice bath. Min would not accept this for Punk. What was it Audie liked to say? If it’s not splendid, it’s not the end?

“My friend can save him,” Min declared, bristling with confidence.

“But how?” Jennie asked.

“I don’t know,” Min answered truthfully. “All I know is that she can.”

Her words of hope shed powerful light in that dark and dreary place.