The safest place to conceal herself proved to be one of the baggage cars, and the one in which she’d taken refuge had a fragrant straw-lined floor. The mouse family that had set up housekeeping there soon regretted their decision. Aside from one tiny nibble of a deviled ham sandwich from the picnic hamper, Min had eaten nothing for quite some time. And she did enjoy the clover taste of fresh field mice.

Her picnic complete, Min explored the rest of her surroundings: a jumble of valises, wooden trunks, steamer cases, and crates. Two of the crates contained chickens. Black Orpingtons. Noisy, grumbling biddies apparently determined to keep Min from her post-meal nap. A carefully placed paw through the chicken wire quieted them for a short time, but chickens are not known for long memories. Min barely got herself curled into the perfect position of feline repose before they started nattering again. She was not fluent in Chicken—why ever would one bother to learn? From what she could discern, however, it seemed they were complaining about her.

More interesting traveling companions were found in the identical pair of Welsh Corgis on their way to a new home in what they referred to as the Empire City. The dogs tended to finish each other’s sentences—they were littermates, after all—but otherwise proved pleasant conversationalists. Are you surprised that cat and canine could and would communicate? Don’t be: It is a complete myth that the two species are inevitable enemies. That old rumor was started by a troublemaking parrot.

Like her dear human friend, Min was not well traveled. Still, she was a quick study. For example, despite there being few motorized vehicles making their way to Miss Maisie’s, Min had acclimated quickly to the Commodore’s touring car, as well as to all the other automobiles rumbling and roaring their way along the streets of the nation’s capital. She also had never been to France, but was immediately enchanted by the young woman Audie had brought home from that same trip to Washington, D.C. It does not hurt that the word for cheese is the same in Cat as it is in French. Feline and pastry maker were so simpatico that Min had been able to plant the idea about baking baghlava in Beatrice’s head.

Despite her abilities and intuitions, Min was stymied by the cargo put aboard at the most recent stop. More cage than crate, it took six men to load it into the baggage car. The creature inside was ten times greater than the heft of both Corgis combined and a thousand times more intelligent than the chickens. Min struggled to interpret the new creature’s language, reminiscent of Bison, with a hint of Eagle. It didn’t help that the language—or perhaps it was the speaker; Min hadn’t worked that out yet—was rather nasal in tone. Min had worked out that the creature was either named Punk or was a punk; at least that’s what the men had called it. By its limited vocabulary, she had also surmised it was not full-grown. It smelled of hay and apples and something else: The young thing reeked of sorrow. Once the cage had been situated in the baggage car, that smell did more to keep Min awake than all the clucking of those flibbertigibbet hens.

Early on, Min had learned how to comfort little Audie during lonely nights. Min hesitated: Would this baby, huge as it was, also welcome such comforting? If Punk stepped on her, then farewell to one of Min’s remaining lives. Yet, she could not bear the creature’s melancholy any longer. She padded close, straw shifting and scratching under her paws, to rub her scent against the metal bars of Punk’s crate. After a few moments, the creature slowed its rocking. Made a snuffling noise. Min waited, not a muscle twitching. Then something stroked her back through the bars. It was Punk’s curious appendage, the one that hung from between his eyes. If it was Punk’s nose, it was the most ridiculous nose that Min had ever seen on an animal, but she kept that thought to herself. Hard enough for this baby to be alone; no need to rub salt in the wound by pointing out how homely he was. But then, truthfully, what animal compares to a cat?

“Moww-rr?” Min inquired, paw poised in midair.

Punk snuffled again. Puffs of warm air from his long appendage blew tracks in Min’s chocolate-striped fur. Min took this as permission and eased slowly between the bars, into the cage, a cage too small for Punk to do anything but stand. She pressed against Punk’s front leg and he stopped rocking altogether. Then he slowly eased his solid self into a lean against the metal bars. Min leapt to a spot at the back of Punk’s flat head, between ears as big as boat sails. Turning once, twice, three times, she settled herself, purring. Though Punk could not lie down, Min felt him relax.

Min licked at the leathery skin beneath her. It was dry. Punk needed water. Needed rest. Needed …

He said something.

Punk said something. And Min understood.

Thank you, he said. Thank you, friend.