UNTIL HE ARRIVED

In all my nine lives, I've never met anyone so deafening. My quiet, clean days were over. The slobber dripped down his chin, covering my new bed. A barking laugh would escape his mouth, sending me scrambling under the couch—his howling in the dead of night at the moon —my ears couldn't take it anymore.

I settled down on the rusty old drums in the next yard over. The people living here had been gone for weeks, leaving me in sweet solitude. The summer sun seeped into my bones as I relaxed on the hot metal. The sound of glass chimes lulled me to sleep.

An earth-shattering cry snapped my eyes open. My ears flattened, desperate to drown out the noise.

"That old oil drum looks mighty comfortable, Bast," a familiar black cat said. "I might have to take a sun bath there pretty soon. The rust on your coat really brings out the brown in your eyes."

The cat's blood-stained claws dug into the wooden fence. His face twisted into a smirk.

"Shut it, Shadow." My tail flicked the drum. A dull echo rolled through the yard.

The cries grew louder.

"I could hear your new playmate howling a couple of houses over," Shadow said.

"Less of a playmate and more of a foghorn," I said.

"Ah, the baby keeping you up at night?" he asked.

"Oh, no, he's been an angel," I said. "We should trade places so you can behold his angelic singing."

"Ha, has he started crawling yet? I heard that was a tough age for cats," he said.

"That started a couple of months ago. He's starting to pull himself up with my cat tree. For some reason, he thinks my tail is a chew toy."

"You could always... Sleep on his face-"

"I'm not killing a baby."

"Is it really killing a baby if it just stops breathing?"

"Yes, of course. I'm not a monster. I can't kill a baby."

"I mean, I could always do it for you-"

"If you step one foot inside my house, I'll rip your face off," I said. "I'd better go back, my people might think I've run away if I'm gone too long."

Shadow's hissing laugh followed me into the house. It was a lot quieter now.

The woman of the house was slumped on the couch, a hand draped over the crib. I carefully hopped on the crib. The baby's saliva-crusted face made my nose curl. His bed was stained with spit-up.

The pacifier slipped out of the baby's mouth. His face scrunched up. I hopped into the cradle, narrowly dodging the drool. He felt my coat and immediately settled down. I lay near his head, careful not to suffocate him. His face smoothed out into a more relaxed sleep.

Slowly, I curled up, resting my head on his. Our breathing matched as I drifted off to sleep.

Milo White grew up between islands and rain-soaked forests, carrying stories the way others carry scars. Born on Maui and shaped by the remote wildness of Metlakatla, Milo writes fiction steeped in quiet magic, lingering shadows, and the echo of places most people never see. Named in memory of a loyal childhood companion, Milo White continues to chase the mysteries that follow them from coast to coast.