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Their doorknob jostles.
Mistyfoot sits up. Their door is always unlocked, then opened. Never tested.
“Tigerstar will–”
“I’m not worried about that,” Mistyfoot says. She grips Featherpaw’s hand.
“We sure this is the room?” someone says outside.
“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “We’re going to kick the door in. Back away from it, please.”
“Who’s that?” Featherpaw whispers.
Mistyfoot doesn’t answer. She watches the door shake, and then crack, and then push open. Two police officers stand on the other side. One lifts her radio. “Found them.”
The other crouches down. “Hey,” he says. “You two ready to get out of here?”
* * *
Mistyfoot stands on the driveway. Featherpaw clutches her arm, leaning heavily on her, and the heat of the summer hits them fully. The sun is sharp, enough to make her squint. The air smells like pine trees.
* * *
Mistyfoot holds Featherpaw’s hand as they’re driven to the hospital. The EMTs have examined them both, and it only takes one look at Featherpaw to know she needs medical attention.
They ask her questions about Featherpaw. Does she have any allergies? Does she have any pre-existing conditions? What’s happened to her?
No, maybe, too much to say.
Featherpaw doesn’t fight with them when they place an IV line. Mistyfoot runs her hand through Featherpaw’s hair.
* * *
She takes the thrusted document, signing her name and Featherpaw’s.
“It won’t last forever,” she’s warned. “And you know, her legal guardian might…”
Mistyfoot passes the paper back. “How do I adopt her?”
* * *
Featherpaw gets worse first.
The doctors try to tell Mistyfoot otherwise, try to tell her that this is to be expected and it doesn’t mean Featherpaw won’t recover, but she’s not stupid. Some charity worker brought her a smartphone. It doesn’t get any service, but she has the hospital’s internet, and she looks up most of the words they say. It’s not good.
She holds Featherpaw’s hand, presses a kiss to Featherpaw’s forehead.
Maybe, a lifetime (Featherpaw’s lifetime) ago, she would have prayed. Now, she sits in the never-silent noise of the hospital, watching Featherpaw’s breathing when she is asleep.
* * *
“What if he responds to the summons?”
“Then he’ll be arrested. He’s got orders out in every state, Mistyfoot. He can’t challenge this.”
She takes a deep breath. Her hands are shaking.
“You don’t have to do this, but it will make things easier.”
“I know.” She uncaps the pen. (She still remembers signing the license, however long ago that was. What did it buy her? She can’t remember now.)
Mistyfoot clenches her hand in a fist, trying to steady it, then signs her name.
“I’ll send these off, then. The divorce should be finalized fairly quickly.”
* * *
She’s not sure whose clothes she’s wearing. They don’t feel like hers.
She has three shirts, and she has worn them all twice, and none of them belong to her.
* * *
Featherpaw is moved into a new ward. Mistyfoot flips through a packet about events. Featherpaw rejects them all.
* * *
“I got a call from someone claiming your brother.” She’s their caseworker (Mistyfoot hasn’t decide how she feels about being a case), and she sits across from Mistyfoot. “If you’re not interested in investigating, we’ll leave it there. But I wanted to let you know.”
(Stonefur.)
(She’s not sure if he’s alive.)
(The story has been told so many times she doesn’t remember what happened.)
(But he could be.)
“I’d…”
“You don’t have to decide anything now,” she says. “The option is here if you want it.”