“Get a life without the sky, Fang.”

Brinkly’s morning greeting was always the same, he did not trust any weather. While the other cats in the alley never regarded anything above their heads, he was always suspicious of the glaring sun. 

He eyed it with wonder, but after a moment would turn away, as if it could look back.

Brinkley could spend hours debating the wind “It doesn’t make sense, Fang.” He told her, “Why is it doing that? It doesn’t have to do that. All of the time? It just never ends? There’s always wind somewhere? And that’s supposed to be normal? Do you ever think about it?”

Now that the same alley was filled with a torrent of fire, intensified by the heavy wind, she wished that she had listened. Thick, tarlike smoke filled her lungs, forcing the Fang of the alley to rely on her nose.

 She could paint a vision through her other keen senses, but that vision didn’t fit with any logic she knew.

None of this should happen. They were a bunch of stray cats. Why would anyone target an isolated alley?