"You go up there," says Mike. "I don't like these things."

"You think I do?"

We stand by the tree, looking up at the branch from which an angry-looking, yellow-eyed cat is staring down at us.

"Come on, he likes you."

"Nah," I say. "I don't think he likes anybody."

"Is this a joke to you?" comes the sharp voice.

The lady who called us scowls at us, one hand on her hip, the other on the head of the little girl clinging to her feet. The girl's eyes look swollen from crying. A few older kids  eye us from a distance.

"Poor Toby has been there for two nights, without any food or water," the woman says. "Are you just going to stand there and chat?"

"Sorry, ma'am." Mike steps to the ladder, but before he can reach it, I'm already climbing up. Handling the cat suddenly looks more attractive now than keeping its owner a company.

The cat hisses and backs away until its butt is against the tree trunk. It throws a quick glance up, but clearly decides that keeping me in sight is more important than trying to climb higher. Its yellow eyes lock on me, and it arches its back, the fur along its spine standing up. Its claws dig into the tree branch. Good thing I have my thick gloves on.

"Hello, kitty," I say, trying to imitate Joshua's cat-talk from the morning. "Who's gorgeous? You're gorgeous."

Instead of appreciating the compliment, the cat hisses louder. Its fur is white if a bit dusty after the two days on the tree. In better times I'm sure it does score high on the cats' gorgeous spectrum. Right now, it looks like a demon preparing to claim my soul.

I reach out and grab it with both hands, realizing a moment too late that I don't really know how to handle cats. It immediately starts twisting in all kinds of surprising ways and comes dangerously close to slipping out of my grip. Stricken by the mental image of the little girl having to witness her pet fall and break its back, I tighten my fingers around the beast and press it to my chest, ignoring its snarling attempts to chew my heart out. Some of its teeth and claws pierce the fabric, making me hiss myself.

I end up securing it under my arm and allow it to chew furiously on my glove-clad thumb. The teeth do not break the skin, but the pressure is enough to make me wince.

The way down is slower and more painful than up. The moment my feet touch the ground the cat slithers out of my grip. To the cheers and the yells of the kids it springs away, and I only catch a glimpse of its white tail disappear in the overgrown grass of the back yard.

"Well, I guess," says the woman. "Thanks, I guess."

The disappointment in her voice is evident, but then Mike pats me on the shoulder, grinning, and I find myself grinning back, despite the pain from the scratches.

I'm still smiling as we drive back. I sit next to Hamilton who drives carelessly with one hand, tapping the other on his knee to the rhythm of some country song playing on the radio. The shift has been fine so far—no fires, no violent crimes, no deaths. A cat on a tree, a malfunctioning sprinkler and an old woman trapped in an elevator. One of those days when the world doesn’t seem like too hostile a place.

I watch the darkening sky, my fingers fidgeting with the band-aid, ungluing and re-gluing its corners. The little girl insisted on personally taking care of the scratches left by her pet demon, and now my wrist is adorned with a large band-aid sporting a red-haired mermaid and a yellow fish. For some reason, looking at it makes me smile.

"…A good way down the railroad track

There was this little old rundown shack

And in it lived a man I'd never seen…"

My foot is tapping lightly to the rhythm of the song as the buildings fly by. We stop at the red light, and a boy on the crosswalk looks up from his phone. His eyes light up at the sight of us. His lips form the word 'wow', and it's only when his mother pulls him by the hand that he remembers to start crossing the street. I raise a hand in greeting, and he smiles back and waves at me.

"Joshua, Joshua,

What you are doing living here all alone?

Joshua, Joshua,

Have you got nobody to call your own?"

My eyes shift to the radio. The cheerful female voice carries on with her upbeat lyrics, but it's the name that sticks with me.

Our conversation by the shop is still bothering me. It shouldn't—I was in the right, after all—but it does. I hate the way I handled it. Pouncing on the guy who's been minding his own business, ambushing him with my unwarranted opinions. Did I actually call him disgusting? It wasn't even what I really thought. I just hoped to shock him into listening—but the words have been said, and if there was ever a chance he could listen to me, it was gone now.

Maybe I should at least apologize for being rude. If I run into him again, I could say that, even though I still don’t approve of his life choices, that doesn’t justify my rudeness. Or maybe no—what does he care for my approval? Tell him that certain things I have said I didn't really mean.

Would he even listen? I'm just a stranger, acting weird. Maybe I should have befriended him first…but how can you befriend someone so unclean without staining yourself?

The radio crackles to life and Hamilton kills the music.

"Engine twenty-five, respond for the report of fire, 51 Stewart street." As more crackling follows, Hamilton engages a blinker and turns the wheel. I sit up a little straighter, the familiar adrenalin beginning to circle in my veins, the darkening evening sky suddenly looking ominous.

The radio crackles again. "It's the 'Golden Leaf' club. Got a few calls already, sounds like a big fire."

Despite my thick uniform, I suddenly feel very cold.