I wake to the sound of nothing, which isn’t right. Something’s different in the house. Time check: 4:55 am. I roll over, the tormented ghost of yesterday’s workout haunting my shoulder. Matt’s on his stomach, one bare foot jutting over the side of the bed, the other on my side, arms doing the “Y” of the YMCA dance, face entirely engulfed in the pillow. I’ve never understood how he’s able to breathe like this. This is how they murder people in movies. So I wait, monitoring for signs of life. My jaw tightens, jamming my night guard too snugly onto my molars. I reach up to adjust it.

His back rises.

Check.

I swing my feet over the edge and sit up, my nightshirt, an XL unisex t-shirt from last year’s Madson Frontier Days Fun Run, twisting up around my thighs. I listen again, my head tilted like a puzzled puppy. Still nothing. It’s too quiet. I slide off the bed and creep out of the bedroom.

In the living room I immediately identify the culprit. The fan, which had been running near the open window to draw in the cool nighttime air, is laying on its side. It’s somehow fallen over and switched itself off. In a house with no air conditioning, summer in Madson is only tolerable if we can pump in cold air all night long. I set it up and flip it back on.

As long as I’m awake, I check the oven, range, water heater, and furnace. Each is in its appropriate off or on state.

Check.

And of course I need to look in on Addie. Her room is down from ours, just past the bathroom. Her door is slightly ajar; probably she just went to the bathroom, or the cat pushed in to snuggle.

Probably.

I clench my teeth as if they’re the only thing holding the rope.

I tiptoe down the carpeted hallway, wincing with each pop and creak. I thought I had memorized all the squeaky spots, and at night I usually Indiana Jones my way down the hall to avoid waking everyone, but I guess I missed a few. Matt says he can fix it, but hasn’t yet. We’ve both been busy.

The moment my fingers touch the cool knob something blasts through the gap and squeezes between my ankles. I fling myself back, slamming against the wall and simultaneously slapping a hand to my mouth to stifle the scream. My head snaps to the left. There’s a familiar silhouette poised, puffed up and vibrating, at the other end of the hall.

Antoinette Perkins.

Stupid cat.

I stalk toward the silver tabby.

“Jesus, Toni, gonna give me a heart attack.”

She waits, thwapping her still puffy striped tail left and right. I crouch down and draw my hand along her back and up her tail to smooth her out.

“It’s ok, kitty.” I bring around my other hand to pick her up and she launches across the room, onto the windowsill, and knocks over the fan on her way out the window. The hinged screen swings shut with a snap.

“No!” I whisper-shout, flinging my arms out impotently. We don’t let her out at night. In the summer, coyotes roam the scablands surrounding Madson, hunting rabbits and rodents, and although our house is several blocks from the edge of town, we don’t want to take any chances.

I shove on my slides and run out the front door just in time to see Toni scramble up the Hawthorne at the edge of our yard. I groan and clomp down the steps, nearly tripping over the local newspaper. It’s one of those deliciously cool, dry summer nights that are such a reprieve from the scorching, gusty days. Goosebumps swarm my bare legs; aside from the reminder that I haven’t shaved in too long, it feels nice.

It also reminds me I’m only wearing a t-shirt and underwear. So be it. After a quick scan to ensure the neighbors aren’t watching, I run across the grass. From the base of the tree, I can see Toni working her way up.

“Kitty, kitty! Toni!” I whisper. “C’mere!”

She stops and looks down. Her eyes flash yellow. She gazes at the roof.

“Don’t you do it!”

She looks at me again, hunched, front paws curling over the branch. She blinks.

“C’mere ba–”

She leaps onto the roof, claws scrabbling on the granulated surface as she disappears from view.

“Ugh!” My jaw tightens. “Fine.”

I hurry into the house, stopping to pull on shorts and grab cat treats, and out the back door. I jog along the house, really just a wide patio with a fence separating our property from the alley. When I get to the bottom of my dad’s ham radio tower I kick off my slides; better to have bare feet than something literally called “slides” for this adventure. I climb. The crossbars are cool, smooth, and familiar; as a kid, the roof was an excellent refuge from the demands of homework and parents. As my head clears the roof’s edge, I spot Toni. She’s taking a bath on the ridgecap.

Squinting, I climb the last few rungs and step onto the roof. The granules bite into my feet, but it doesn’t hurt. My summer calluses are in full effect.

I shake the treats container, maracas in the quiet early morning. “Toni! C’mere baby! Wanna treat?”

She looks at me, twitches the tip of her tail, waits a few seconds, and stands.

“Yeah! Come get a tr–”

Toni barrels down and sails off the roof.

I gasp a liter of air and turn to see her land in the empty rear basket of the papergirl’s bike. Jamming to whatever’s in her headphones, pumping along the bumpy alley, she doesn’t even notice. Antoinette looks up at me, nonchalant, blinking those glowing yellow eyes languidly. Cleopatra reclining, tranquil, in her litter.

“Wha…?” I say, followed by, “Hey! Um…Shar! Charlotte!” The papergirl can’t hear me. They disappear down the alley. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I think fast. She’s on a bike. If I get in the car and head that way, I can catch her. As long as I don’t lose her somewhere in town. Madson is tiny, but not that tiny.

I descend the tower, jumping the last four feet, and cram my feet back into my slides. On the way through the house I snatch my wallet and the keys off the peg shaped like an orange and white cat tail. Then into the garage.

I push the button, hoping the garage door opening doesn’t wake the house. I toss my wallet on the passenger seat, start the car, put it in reverse, then look in the mirror and crush the brakes. The garage door is still going up.

I grit my teeth. My night guard is still in. Nothing to do about it, no pockets in these shorts. I close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath. Another. A serene image blooms behind my eyelids: a dark, low hill topped by a large oak, all in silhouette, and behind it in the cobalt sky a bright, full moon. Another breath. My jaw begins to relax. From behind the tree something emerges. Another moon. Two enormous, radiant orbs, hovering above, watching over me.

The garage door clunks and I hit the gas.

First I check the alley. Nothing. While I think, I turn and drive in the direction Shar was riding. Her basket was empty, so she’s finished delivering, probably heading home, which is near the park. I know because I gave her dad a ride home last year after a Parent Teacher Student Organization meeting; we were chatting at the refreshments table, and I told him I had a friend in college named Shar, but she was a Charlene, not a Charlotte.

I told you Madson was tiny.

The streets in Madson are largely built on a grid, except where Crow Creek winds through, which means there are many ways to get to Shar’s house from here. So I follow a likely path for a twelve-year old country girl at night: one that passes the most cute boys’ houses, with the tie-breaker being the most brightly lit streets.

Following this logic, I quickly find her. She’s pedaling west down Gentry. As I approach from behind, Toni’s ears poke up above the edge of the basket. My headlights paint a giant Shar shadow, and she dips toward the side of the road. At that moment, a flash of fur explodes from the basket, rocking the bike. Shar stops, whips off her headphones, and looks back, confused. I pull over and jump out.

“Hi Shar! Just my cat!”

Toni disappears into the darkness between two houses. I run after her. I’m sure I look like a madwoman.

Over my shoulder: “It’s Carly Mackie! You’re doing a great job getting our paper on the porch, by the way!”

Behind the houses, the grass fades into hard-packed dirt and slopes down. The sky opens up and I realize I’m heading down into Crow Creek. The moon is perfectly framed to cast its glow along the ravine, like a bowling ball poised to deliver a strike. It’s August, so the creek is low, but not yet dry. Toni is picking her way along the rocks at the water’s edge, moving roughly southwest with the current.

“Toni!” I yell. “Hey! Stupid cat!” I slide and scrabble down the slope into the ravine.

Toni stops and looks back. Her yellow eyes flash and she springs into the creek, onto a small board that’s floating by.

“How?” I smack my hands to my face and shake my head slowly. I wonder if I’m really home in bed, dreaming.

No way around it. I start moving along the creek, trying to keep rocks out of my sandals and keep up with the current, but losing both battles. If she has good enough balance, Toni will eventually end up in the Columbia River, and finally the Pacific Ocean. Might have some issues with Grand Coulee Dam along the way, though. My jaw tightens as I picture her sailing, like a surfer catching the peak of a wave, through the sluice gates.

But it turns out not to be an issue. Just before she’s lost from view, the board gets caught in a tangle of rocks and Toni hops daintily, rock to rock, to the shore.

The other shore.

Of course.

At this point, I know the drill and I play my part. I locate the lowest point near me and wade across the creek, keeping my sandals on, reasoning that a slippery path is better than a rocky one. I get most of the way across before the current rips my left sandal off. I lunge for it, but miss, and it bobs happily away toward its own further adventures. So be it. I pull off my other slide and proceed barefoot, squinting with each stab and poke.

I emerge from the ravine at the city park; Toni is bounding across the field like an astronaut on the moon. I sprint after her. The neatly trimmed grass feels soft and familiar on my bare feet. In the next field over, sprinklers are ch-ch-chucking. The warning bellow of the 5:30 train diffuses through the bordering trees. Suddenly I’m eleven, exhilarated and deliciously afraid, dashing through the dark, dangerously exposed, trying to kick the can before whoever’s “it” snags my sweaty t-shirt. Tears from the wind streak back from my eyes.

At the other end of the field, Toni pounces between the trees. Recalling what’s on the other side of those trees, I come back to now and bite down on my night guard.

I bolt through the stand of ponderosa pines, ignoring the pinecones and exposed roots punishing my feet, and come out the other side onto the rough gravel ballast bordering the railroad tracks. Toni is nearby, scuttling along the side of the tracks. I follow. I can’t even feel the stones.

At a crossing not far behind, the train blows its horn, coming our way.

Ahead, an old farm truck is parked in a lot abutting the tracks. Toni surges up onto the bed and sits, stretching out a back leg for a timely bath. I’m nearly there, but so is the train.

“Toni!” I gasp. “Stay there, baby!”.

And then the train screams by like a wounded water buffalo. A gust freighted with the scents of diesel, grease, and hot iron inflates my t-shirt. I reach the back of the truck. Toni interrupts her bath to gift me a glance. I start to haul myself up. With my chest on the truck bed, feet dangling, I reach out to her.

“C’mere, Toni! Treats!”

My voice is weak due to my compressed lungs, but I know she hears me. The striped gray cat stands, stretches deliciously, takes three steps toward my hand, then turns and vaults onto the train.

I scream.

It’s one of those cars with no sides, loaded with ten inch irrigation mainline pipes. She lands awkwardly on one of the outer pipes. One gray paw slides over the edge, but she quickly recovers and nonchalantly hops to the middle of the car. The train has slowed to drive through town, maybe twenty-five miles per hour, so I’m able to watch as Toni struts confidently along one of the white PVC tubes.

No time to think. I slide back to the ground, race around the truck, open the driver’s door, and haul myself up onto the torn vinyl seat. Of course the key is in the ignition. This is Madson, farm country. Who’s going to steal an old trap wagon? I fling my sandal on the seat, smash in the clutch, pump the gas three times, and turn the key. The ancient engine roars to life.

It’s already in first, so I ease out the clutch and press the gas. The truck lurches forward. I used to drive wheat trucks during harvest; it’s been a few years, but the rhythm comes right back. Soon I’m juddering down the gravel strip in pursuit. Between the unfit road, the ridiculously loose manual steering, and the fifty year old shocks, I’m glad I still have my night guard in.

Feeling like an anachronistic train robber, I keep pace slightly behind Toni’s car. Whenever my eyes aren’t being rattled out of their sockets, I can see her sitting, alert, facing back. Is she watching me, making sure I’m keeping up?

I’m not sure what my plan is. Maybe the engineer will think I’ve lost my mind and stop. Maybe a hot air balloon will drift by and Toni will snag its dangling rope and hitch a ride. Maybe my plans don’t matter. Maybe being prepared, confident, and alert is enough.

We chug through the last crossing in town and the train accelerates up the hill. As it passes a colony of quaking aspen populating the north side of the tracks, I suddenly know what’s next, and I’m gratified to see Toni hurl her tiny, intrepid body into the embrace of the feathery branches.

I mash the brakes, killing the engine, grab my sandal, and leap out of the cab, then hold my breath while the rest of the train passes by. At last it does, taking its raucous clatter, and I refocus my eyes to scan the country landscape on the other side.

I locate her immediately, beyond the aspens. Tail held high, she slips between a dry, spindly sagebrush and a Russian thistle to meet the curve of a deteriorating oiled gravel road winding northeast up the grassy hill. She traipses up the path, which I now recognize as Old Cemetery Road.

I follow.

At the top, the land levels into a broad plateau overlooking Madson. Extending northward from the left side of the road is the new cemetery. My folks are here. Matt’s dad is here. All of our grandparents, too. South of the road is the old cemetery, containing crumbled stones as old as the late 1800s, when the first White settlers came to Madson. They’re sheltered by an enormous oak tree, backlit by the gentle glow of imminent sunrise.

Antoinette Perkins is sitting on the low rock wall bordering the old cemetery, waiting for me.

“Toni!”

As I begin to jog, my feet practically numb from abuse, another cat, this one striped orange, peeks out from behind a stone. Then another, a black and orange tortie, joins Toni on the wall. More and more emerge, skulking through the cheatgrass, from behind the tree, from beyond the hill. Dozens and dozens of cats, black, gray, white, and every combination thereof. All sitting, staring at me.

I stop in front of Toni. She presses her head into my hand and chirrups.

“Oh, baby!” I gather her face in my hands and scratch. It takes everything in me not to squeeze her little head. She extricates herself and rotates, rubbing her back and tail along my arm.

I hear shuffling behind me, and a skinny little black cat with one white paw comes prancing up the road, holding its head high to manage the large object dangling from its mouth. It deposits my lost slide at my feet and skitters away.

I gasp. My throat constricts and my vision begins to swim.

“What’s happening?”

The cats sit silently, and somehow I know this is their message: We are here.

We share a quiet moment, broken only by the crickets and my deep, relaxed breaths.

Toni turns, rubbing her side against my stomach, and looks up at me. I drop my sandal next to the other and slip them on. I lift my cat with one arm, and, after a last look back at Madson’s guardian cats, already dispersing, I turn down the hill. Together, we start the long walk home to watch over our sleeping family.

Check.