𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟖. 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝟏

A/N: IMPORTANT! To my readers who don't identify as she/her/hers, find links to he/him/his, they/them/theirs, and [pronoun] versions here, on my announcements, and on my profile; they'll keep pace with my most recent updates.

Link here: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1XNFbGlGawgCc8Uey3U5BSGbBBswhHzOK?usp=sharing

A violent gale nearly knocked you down, and your throat leapt as you stumbled across the crosswalk to hold onto the light pole for support. From then on, you stuck to the abandoned storefronts, also rattling in the wind, leaning on their walls for a modicum of shelter. You squinted at the street signs–streetlights hadn't turned on yet, but no sun was to be seen. In a way, it was darker than night, and your thoughts took a similar turn.

A beam of wood whizzed overhead, and you quickly dodged beneath the swaying overhang of Coconuts Bar, doubly shuttered from the pandemic and now the storm. But what if that beam had been a few feet lower, at a steeper angle, maybe just a tick faster, or you'd been out in the open? It'd been about your height, and thick­; at that speed, it would've–you imagined a dull crack and a splinter of pain. Underneath your soaked jacket, cold sweat mingled with rainwater.

There was a reason why people evacuated from these and the news cried out warnings for weeks in advance. Wandering down the deserted road, you wondered what your parents would think about their imprudent child who had made the terrible blunder of flying herself thousands of miles away. What would they think about their labor of 18 years, so ignorantly endangering herself like this? What would they do if you didn't come home? Maybe they'd be ashamed for you and your foolishness. And they would miss you–or would they quietly welcome being spared the trouble? No, you were being irrational. You needed to stop thinking like this.

Your head down, chin tucked into your chest, you trudged forward. Just then, the storm briefly calmed and you heard a cry nearby. You turned around, squinting at the abandoned storefronts in the gloom. Looked up and down, your vision focused on a sodden bundle curled beneath a dripping overhang. A pair of ears flicked, and you were met with a pair of slit pupils against vibrant green eyes. You splashed your way over, examining the print. There was no doubt about it. "Patches?"

Hearing her name, the tabby lifted her head. You felt a surge of giddy relief–there she was! You took in an inhale of the cold air. "Patches, it's [Name]!" You held out your arms to take her in.

Your relief sank when Patches flattened her ears and backed away, hissing. Your heart pounded inside your chest, anxiety filling you as if it ran in your blood. Every moment you spent out here magnified your chances of being in an accident. You had to get her out fast, but "fast" would probably get you red scratches and no Patches. What should you do? What did you know about cats?

In your gentlest voice, you said, "I'm out here too, but I know the way home."

She didn't move–pressed to the ground in a crouch, her tail pointed straight down. A wave of frustration washed over you. This was not what you needed right now, and you were all too conscious of the time as it slipped away.

You slowly backed away, into the street. Rain hammering the top of your hood, you imagined grains of sand trickling through the narrow opening of an hourglass, your levels of danger rising like the red in a thermometer. He'd told you to come home. But if you turned back now, you wouldn't be able to forgive yourself.

For a few moments, you just stood there. Your brain helpfully provided the background noise of a clock's rapid ticking. What was she thinking? What were you supposed to do now? Her posture loosened a little, and you spoke up. "Patches, I know it's really scary out here. But think about Clay–Clay must be so worried for you." She seemed to respond to the sound of his name.