The bells on the corner store’s glass door clatter as it closes behind her and the full-blast a/c is such a contrast she pulls out the shirt she is glad she remembered to grab. The cat on the stool behind the counter yawns and sits up. They nod at each other, and the old guy next to him nods, and not thinking she nods back. He nods one more time looking confused. The cat shrugs and hops over the counter following her to the refrigerated case on the back wall.

“Fasol really likes you,” says the old guy after them.

The cat cringes and narrows his eyes daring her to push his buttons. She grins at his adorable nom de guerre. “I hope so because I like him a whooooole lot!”

Fasol shivers and shakes his paws and she chooses to ignore this insult. “Something up?” she whispers, reaching into the case for a carton of eggs.

“Your place has gotten crowded while you were gone. Quite an assembly, after your friend left the window open behind ‘em.”

“Wrens?”

“Worse–nightbeasts with bindles. Two kinds entered separately. Can’t imagine the state of your parlor.”

“Thank you for the heads up, friend. Want anything special in this week’s compensation?” she asks softly trying to cover their conversation rustling through snack bags. 

“I liked that stew you had that time, you know,” he trails off as he makes his way toward his window perch behind the counter. She stacks a brick of cheese and a package of hotdogs on top of the eggs on the counter and picks a few apples out of a basket.

“Nine bones, even,” says the old guy. She’s never seen him touch anything on the register other than the button that opens it. She gives him ten, “Put the change in the pot for treating Fasol, will you?”

Fasol nods, and the old guy nods, handing her the bag, and this time she only nods back once. “Good night!”

Stepping out of the door is like hitting a wall of thick heat and better eyes would see the steam rise off her skin. She looks up at her windows across the street, wondering what sort of night beasts have stopped by. 

Unlocking the door, she flips the switches that light the stairway and the entryway behind the frosted panel door at the top. There’s a clatter and a snarl. She flips the one inside the apartment back off and heads up.

“Guests!” she announces to the darkness as she enters. “I am crossing to the kitchen to pull up the shade so we might have a proper chat. Please move to the walls and pull your tails out of the path. I don’t want any accidents.”

There’s a scittering from both sides and she lets a little light from the street in without incident.

“Who’s there? Have you eaten?”

From the shadow next to the sofa little fingerless-gloved-looking hands appear followed by the ghostly gray shag of a young possum. A few more pointed pink noses wriggle out from under the sofa.

“Tuor’s Hand, we apologize for entering your burrow without permission,” says the largest.

“Ah, well, it’s not like you could sit outside and wait. I can’t imagine you coming to me if it wasn’t urgent. Is it about the heat?”

“Us too got something to say!” interrupts a voice from under the desk. Several balls of black and gray fluff tumble from around the chair rungs, as three small washer bears present themselves cutting in front of the anxious possums. “We got a problem too!”

“I see,” she says, taking some apples from a basket hooked to the ceiling. “If I give you each an apple, will you wait your turn?”

Their small clawed hands grab for the apples and she notices them now fidgeting about uncomfortably. Filling a pail with some water, she sets it in front of them, and they busy themselves scrubbing their treats.

She passes some apples to the possums asking them to go on while restocking the basket. The leader pulls a small cloth bundle from behind herself and nudges it forward. Accepting it, she opens it to find a kitten too small to be alone swaddled inside. “Oh!”

“We found the kit with no other around. We are not welcome by the Colony and did not know what to do. The wrens showed us to your burrow. Said you are the hand of Tuor; can speak to anyone.”

“Ah. Well, yes, I’ll make sure she survives,” she says, feeling sorry for this kit that no one in the Colony would likely welcome with the scent of nightbeasts. She wraps up half of the hot dogs in a clean cloth and passes it to them.

“Will she grow to…” the possum starts and stops, shaking her head. “No, forget it.”

They head to the open window. The smacking sound of the washer bears eating slows.

“Gray ladies, I wish you a safe journey home and a Long Night of good finds.”

The possums blink and then bow deeply. “Nightbeasts and lost kits have few friends. Thank you for hearing our request.” Then they were gone.

“Izzat a cat’s kit?” asked the boldest of the washer bears, cleaning his whiskers and tugging on her sleeve. His masked face peeking into her hands as she slips the kitten into her shirt pocket. “We brought you a different ‘un!”

Two of them pulled open their own bundle revealing a limp pup.

“Oh dear…” She scoops it up and holds it to her ear. Still breathing. Wrapping it up she tucks it carefully next to the kitten. 

A third says, “Whatchoo fink it is? Fox?”

“Where’d you find this little one? It’s a dog’s pup.”

“We wasn’t near the West Pack!” they insist in chorus.

“Fine, fine. Where’d you happen on this newborn pup? Tell me about it.”

Eagerly, their little voices rise, taking turns telling of their afternoon’s events. 

“We wuz by the river.”  “Looking for scraps”  “Shiny fings to play wif!”

“Heard a big sound.”  “Saw a biiiiig shiny fing.”  “Not the sort you can play wif.”

“A human got out.”   “Dropped somefin’ and goes.” “We fish it out, but the crows…”

“Say they take it to Tuor’s kin.”  “Squawk and cackle!”  “And lies!”

“We grab it and run here.” “See nightbeasts climb up.” “Follow ‘em inside.”

“Good work, my friends. Give me your bindle,” she says, opening the fridge and bringing out a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. “I’ve got a reward for your bravery. But do not think I will trade eggs for stolen pups or kits, you hear?”

“Yyyyes” they all sing out grabbing for their prize and bumbling out of the window. The last one turns, “Izzat pup gonna join the Western Pack?”

“If it wants to, I suppose it may.”

“Will you tell it we wuz good friends when it was small and we can be friends when it’s big?”

Her heart rolls over in its cage. “I will tell the pup of its historic rescue from the river by the bravest washer bears.”

“Good good! Fank you!”  

Latching the window behind them she turns on the lamp. 

I’ve got to get these two some proper care and speak to the Colony and the Pack to confirm my suspicion that I am now a permanent caretaker. Not to mention this business with finding the bees’ mouse. A mouse of all things!

For the first time all day, she looks at her phone. Barely a sliver of power left, she plugs it into the cord dangling from the desk and sits tethered to the spot, tapping through contacts, only sort of like the most recent of old days. She finds Moira and hopes she answers.

She picks up. “Is this an animal emergency, babe?” 

“Yes ma’am. Hello! And I will owe you more.”

“Is it something that cannot be moved?”

“Two newborn somethings I can bring to you?”

“A’ight, come over. I need your help with a stray anyhow.”

She leaves the phone charging on the desk and takes her wards to the good doctor, hoping she smells ok.