I grabbed my keys.

Then put them down again.

Bad idea.

Not the keys.

Putting them down.

I picked them up immediately, with the distinct feeling that my brain had just wasted a precious second on a pointless internal procedure.

The studio door was still open.

The hallway waited.

Or rather, it was there.

Hallways didn’t wait for anything.

They merely became far too long when you needed them to provide an answer.

“Eugène?”

My voice remained low.

Ridiculous.

If he was already in the stairwell, he wasn’t going to return out of respect for acoustic discretion.

I stepped onto the landing anyway.

Nothing.

Liora’s door was closed.

Behind me, mine stood open onto the studio, where Lapin watched from his corner in complete stillness.

Fine.

So I had a rabbit witness.

Better than nothing.

Or worse.

I returned to the studio.

Not to search again.

Well.

Yes.

To search again.

Because a disappearance only became official after several humiliating checks of the same places.

Under the couch.

Nothing.

Behind the television stand.

Nothing.

Between the cushions.

Nothing except an old sock of mine, which I discovered with immediate disapproval toward the person I had become.

Under the desk.

Nothing.

In the bathroom.

Nothing.

Behind the shower curtain.

Nothing, though the sight of Eugène standing inside the bathtub, perfectly dry, staring at me like an owner surprised in a secondary room, would almost have reassured me.

I checked the cupboard.

The entryway.

The laundry basket.

The box beside the bookcase.

Especially the box.

He loved that box.

He had already managed to become invisible inside it despite eighteen and a half pounds of fur and the dignity of a former cabinet minister.

Empty.

I climbed to the mezzanine.

Too quickly.

Hit my knee against the edge of the ladder.

Sharp pain.

Very useful.

The bed.

The blanket.

The small space behind the crate of books.

Nothing.

I climbed back down.

I was already breathing hard despite having covered a cumulative hundred feet inside my own apartment.

A concerning performance.

I returned to the glass door.

Closed.

Locked.

I checked anyway.

The lock was in place.

I opened it.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Highly constructive.

I stepped onto the balcony.

The evening air struck my face immediately.

The reinforced mesh was still there.

So were the fastenings.

The barrier I had installed after his first escape held.

I ran one hand over it.

Solid.

Well, solid by freelance-illustrator standards.

No gaps.

No obvious route through.

Obvious to me.

Not necessarily to Eugène.

Cats had a particular relationship with geometry. They entered impossible holes, occupied absurd volumes, and occasionally passed through spaces where a liquid would have hesitated.

I leaned toward the divider.

Liora’s balcony.

Empty.

The chair outside.

A plant.

A sports shirt forgotten across the backrest.

Nothing gray and white.

“Eugène?”

My voice fell between the balconies.

No answer.

I looked down.

Mistake.

Again.

The courtyard seemed farther below than usual.

Which made no sense.

Gravity did not change according to my level of panic.

Normally.

The trash cans stood in a line beside the wall, two bicycles were locked to a rack, a rectangle of yellow light came from the lobby, and cars were parked along the street beyond the gate.

No cat.

No body.

No motionless shape.

I forced myself to look properly.

Not merely avoid the images.

Nothing.

Fine.

No cat visible below.

Which meant everything.

And nothing.

He could be inside the building.

At Liora’s.

In the stairwell.

In the courtyard.

Under a car.

Trapped somewhere.

He might have slipped through the door while she was leaving.

While I watched her leave without watching him.

The thought arrived.

Simple.

Brutal.

I had left the door open.

Not for long.

A few seconds.

Maybe a minute.

I had been standing there inside the studio, occupied with not asking Liora to stay, thinking about the email, Mathilde, the sentence she had said before leaving.

And Eugène.

Eugène might have crossed the threshold.

Silently.

Like a cat.

Obviously like a cat.

I went back inside.

Demitrius moved one ear.

I crouched in front of him.

Completely unrelated.

I needed to perform an action that resembled verification.

“Did you see him leave?”

He chewed a strand of hay.

Fine.

The witness refused to cooperate.

I stood.

Picked up my phone.

No answer from Mathilde.

The message was from an unknown number.

Delivery postponed.

Perfect.

Even national logistics had chosen this moment to contribute to the disorder.

I put the phone down.

Then picked it up again.

I had to tell Liora.

No.

I had to check her apartment.

Telling her required a sentence.

A sentence required a choice.

A choice created the possibility of landing badly.

Knocking was simpler.

In theory.

In practice, my hand remained suspended in front of my door for two seconds.

The argument was still there.

Not in the middle of the hallway.

Not in any visible form.

But inside my body.

In the way my shoulder tensed before I even opened the door.

In the idiotic thought that she would assume I had come to discuss the email again.

In the even more idiotic fear that she wouldn’t answer.

I closed my eyes.

Eugène came first.

Before my pride.

Before the awkwardness.

Before the sentence I hadn’t known how to say.

Before the one I had said too much.

I stepped out.

The landing was silent.

I took three steps.

Knocked.

Not too loudly.

Then louder, because there were moments when politeness became a form of acoustic cowardice.

Footsteps.

Quick.

Even through the door, I recognized them.

The lock turned.

Liora opened.

Her jacket was still around her shoulders, as though she hadn’t truly had time to enter her evening. Her hair had come slightly loose. A strand fell beside her cheek. At first, she looked at me the way you looked at someone when the conversation between you wasn’t finished.

Then she saw my face.

Everything changed.

Not dramatically.

She didn’t place a hand over her heart.

She didn’t produce a sentence.

She simply stopped being inside the argument.

“What happened?”

I swallowed.

Very professional.

“Eugène is gone.”

Her gaze immediately dropped to the floor, as though the cat might be standing between us.

Then behind me.

Then toward my apartment.

“Since when?”

“I don’t know. A few minutes. I think.”

“Did you check your place?”

“Everywhere.”

“Everywhere everywhere?”

“Yes.”

“The cupboard?”

“Yes.”

“The mezzanine?”

“Yes.”

“Under the couch?”

I looked at her.

She stopped.

“Okay. Insulting question. Sorry.”

Then she opened the door wider.

“Wait.”

She was already turning away.

“Dad!”

Her voice shot through the apartment with enough force to wake a regional governor three districts away.

I stepped forward despite myself.

“Not too loud.”

She froze.

Turned around.

Looked at me.

Then immediately lowered her voice.

“Sorry.”

That was almost worse than if she had continued.

Because she had listened.

Immediately.

Without arguing.

Without turning the instruction into a debate.

She disappeared into the entryway and returned with her keys in one hand and her phone in the other.

“We’re going downstairs.”

“I wanted to check your balcony first.”

“Yes. We check. Then we go downstairs.”

She was already speaking faster, but less loudly.

A strange compromise.

Very Liora.

She gestured for me to enter.

I hesitated for half a second.

Not because of the argument.

Because of the allergy.

Because of my missing cat.

Because of the very unpleasant sensation of bringing my fear into someone else’s apartment.

Liora probably saw something.

“Aurèl.”

One word.

I followed her.

The apartment next door was larger than mine.

I already knew that.

But crossing it in that state felt like moving through a version of the world that was too open. A hallway with shoes. A jacket hanging from a hook. The smell of laundry detergent and reheated food. Photographs on the wall I didn’t have time to examine, except one in which Liora must have been twelve, a ball under one arm, her hair everywhere.

Useless information.

So naturally my brain kept it.

Her father appeared at the end of the hallway.

Pale shirt, glasses in one hand, expression already prepared to contain an incident.

“What’s happening?”

Liora answered before I could.

“Eugène is missing.”

Her father’s gaze moved from his daughter to me.

Then to the open door behind us.

“What do you mean, missing?”

Serious tone.

Not cold.

Not worried yet.

Not completely.

“He isn’t in my apartment anymore,” I said.

My voice sounded flat.

Very far away.

“Are you sure?”

A normal question.

Unbearable.

“Yes.”

He must have seen something on my face, because he didn’t elaborate.

He put on his glasses.

“How long has he been gone?”

“A few minutes. Maybe more.”

“Was the door open?”

I clenched my teeth.

“Yes. When Liora left.”

Her name remained between us.

Not as before.

Not with its usual weight.

Liora lowered her eyes slightly.

Her father made no comment.

Thank you.

I wasn’t sure I could have survived a remark about responsible supervision of domestic animals.

“First, the balcony,” he said.

Liora had already crossed the living room.

I followed.

The glass door was closed but unlocked. She opened it.

Liora’s balcony appeared with its plants, chair, sports shirt, an empty pot in one corner, and the divider leading to my balcony.

No Eugène.

Liora leaned over.

Too quickly.

My body reacted before my voice.

“Careful.”

She stopped.

Her fingers closed around the railing.

“I’m being careful.”

She actually was.

It was almost visible.

Her father stepped behind us.

He examined the passage.

The mesh.

The ledge.

The floor.

“He doesn’t appear to have crossed here.”

“He could have,” Liora said.

“Not if Aurèl’s apartment door was open. The hallway is more likely.”

The hallway is more likely.

A beautiful sentence.

Very simple.

Very catastrophic.

I looked at the balcony floor.

A gray hair was caught beside the leg of the chair.

My heart stopped.

I crouched.

Picked it up.

Looked at it.

Hair.

Gray.

Ridiculous.

Eugène shed enough fur to form a second independent animal. There had probably been hairs on Liora for weeks, in the hallway, on the doormat, in places where he had never officially set foot.

“Is it his?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

My voice wasn’t doing well.

Liora didn’t say it meant nothing.

She didn’t say it wasn’t serious.

She only looked at the hair between my fingers.

Then at me.

“We’re going to find him.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know that.

And because part of me was afraid replying would break the sentence.

Her father was already taking out his phone.

“I’ll check the floors. Liora, go downstairs with Aurèl. Start with the stairwell and courtyard. I’ll tell your mother.”

“I’ll get treats,” she said.

“Good idea.”

We went back inside.

Her mother appeared in the living room almost immediately, as though she had heard only the necessary words. Her hair was tied back, she wore a long cardigan, and her face was gentler than the situation deserved.

“Eugène?”

Liora nodded.

“He’s missing.”

Her mother looked at me.

Not reproachfully.

Not in panic.

With direct attention that almost made me unstable.

“What does he like?” she asked.

A practical question.

Blessed.

“Dry food. Tuna. Cardboard boxes. Places he isn’t allowed.”

“Fine.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small plastic container.

“Does this smell strong?”

I looked at her.

“Sorry?”

“We need something that will attract him.”

She opened it.

Fish.

Very strong.

Very immediate.

Completely contrary to social convention.

“Mackerel,” she said.

“Mom, did you just sacrifice dinner?”

“There’s still pasta.”

Her father ran a hand over his face.

“That wasn’t the meal plan.”

“The meal is no longer the subject.”

I almost smiled.

Failed.

Something began inside my mouth, then came apart.

Liora’s mother may have noticed.

She also handed me a small flashlight.

“Here. It helps under cars.”

Under cars.

The sentence entered my chest.

I took the flashlight.

“Thank you.”

My voice sounded almost normal.

Which was worse.

Serious things sometimes had that absurd quality.

They made you polite.

All four of us stepped onto the landing.

Liora’s father took the stairs upward.

“I’ll check the sixth floor, then come down one floor at a time.”

“We live on the fifth, Dad.”

“I know where we live, Liora.”

“I’m clarifying.”

“Unnecessarily.”

“That’s my specialty.”

He gave her a look.

Not stern.

Not really.

Then looked at me.

“If he is inside the building, avoid frightening him. No sudden movements.”

Liora inhaled to answer.

Then stopped.

She looked at me.

“No sudden movements,” she repeated more softly.

As though saying it to herself.

We went downstairs.

The staircase I had used hundreds of times immediately changed in nature.

Every landing became a possibility.

Every step a delay.

Every door a place behind which Eugène might be sitting, offended and alive, waiting for the humans to stop panicking long enough to open it.

“Eugène?” I called.

My voice didn’t sound like mine.

Not entirely.

It was thinner.

More exposed.

I didn’t like hearing it in the stairwell.

Behind me, Liora called too.

“Eugène!”

Too loudly.

I turned around.

She stopped immediately.

“Sorry.”

I shook my head.

Not at her.

At my inability to speak normally.

“More softly. If he’s scared...”

“Yes. Of course.”

She lowered her voice.

“Eugène?”

Almost a whisper.

Strangely awkward on her.

As though speaking softly required an instruction manual.

We checked the fourth-floor landing.

Behind a neighbor’s plants.

Beside the utility cupboard.

Under the little bench where someone always left expired catalogs.

Nothing.

Third floor.

Nothing.

Second.

A door opened.

A man stuck his head out.

The second-floor neighbor.

I knew him in the form of coughing.

“Is there a problem?”

I opened my mouth.

No useful sound emerged.

Liora took over.

“We’re looking for a gray-and-white cat. Fairly large. Very handsome. A bit of a thief.”

I looked at her.

She made a brief grimace.

“Sorry. Reflex.”

The neighbor frowned.

“I haven’t seen a cat.”

“If he enters your apartment, can you call us?” Liora asked.

She took out her phone as though preparing to organize a crisis unit with a database and real-time reports.

Very Liora.

Very useful.

Very too much.

“Yes,” he said. “I mean, I can tell you if I see him.”

“Thank you.”

She recorded his floor in her phone anyway.

“Second floor, nothing.”

I saw it from the corner of my eye.

I said nothing.

Because I would have made a spreadsheet.

Probably.

With columns.

And colors.

We continued.

First floor.

Nothing.

Lobby.

Nothing.

Liora’s mother joined us with the container of mackerel, treats in a bowl, and a folded towel over one arm.

“In case we find him injured,” she said simply.

I looked at the towel.

White.

Clean.

Too concrete.

My stomach contracted.

Liora looked at it too.

This time, she said nothing.

Her father came down the stairs a few seconds later.

“Nothing upstairs. Not in the hallways or beside the utility rooms.”

He looked more serious.

We went out into the courtyard.

The evening light had that color between two states.

Not yet night.

No longer truly day.

The corners were becoming less defined. The shadows beneath the cars looked thicker than necessary.

I immediately hated cars.

All of them.

Their weight.

Their heat.

Their wheels.

The dark spaces underneath.

Very unfair toward objects that were simply parked.

I crouched beside the first one.

Flashlight.

White beam.

Dust.

Dead leaves.

An old ticket.

No cat.

“Eugène?”

Nothing.

Second car.

Nothing.

Third.

A shape.

I froze.

Plastic bag.

I almost had a heart attack because of salad packaging.

Fine.

The modern city was a threat.

Liora was checking the bushes along the wall, moving more slowly than she wanted to. I could see it. Her entire body seemed designed to run from one point to another. Here, she was forcing herself to move carefully.

One step.

Look.

Listen.

Another step.

Her father checked the gate, the entrance to the trash room, and the corners beside the bicycles.

Her mother gently shook the bowl of treats.

Not too loudly.

Just enough.

The sound was tiny.

Familiar.

At home, Eugène would have appeared within two seconds, looking as though he had been summoned to an important meeting.

Here, nothing.

I crouched beside a black car.

“Eugène?”

My voice broke on the final syllable.

I lowered my head.

Fine.

Not now.

I didn’t have time for that.

A hand entered my field of vision.

Not touching me.

Beside me.

Liora had crouched too, but at a distance.

She tilted her head to look beneath the car.

“Nothing.”

I stared into the darkness beneath the chassis.

“He could be injured and not answering.”

“Yes.”

She hadn’t said no.

Thank you.

Really.

The things that helped were strange sometimes.

She could have said, Of course not.

She could have said, Don’t think about that.

She could have filled the air to push the image away.

She didn’t.

She simply accepted that the possibility existed in the courtyard with us.

And that made it less alone.

Not less frightening.

Less alone.

We continued.

The trash room smelled of damp, wet cardboard, and failed collective decisions.

Her father opened the door with almost ceremonial care.

“Eugène?”

Hearing the name in his voice did something to me.

No longer “that cat.”

No longer “your cat.”

Eugène.

He looked behind the bins, between the bags, into the corner where pipes descended from the ceiling.

Nothing.

“He wouldn’t have come in here,” Liora said.

“A cat can go anywhere,” her father replied.

“Yes, but he has taste.”

“Liora.”

She fell silent.

Then looked at me.

“Sorry.”

This time, I almost managed to smile.

“He once tried to sleep in my laundry bag.”

“So he doesn’t have that much taste.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

A small piece of air.

Again.

Then the fear returned.

Normal.

Specific.

Necessary.

We searched the cellars accessible from the courtyard. Not the cellars exactly, more the entrance before them, with a heavy door, an unreliable light switch, and a staircase descending into a cold smell.

“Could he go down there?” Liora asked.

“Yes.”

“Could he get back up?”

I didn’t answer.

Her father switched on the light.

It flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then remained dim.

A very appropriate atmosphere for a disappearance.

All that was missing was ominous music and a neighbor saying, “No one has gone down here since last winter.”

I descended two steps.

“Eugène?”

The sound fell farther down.

No movement.

Only a pipe.

A steady drip.

My heart, far too present.

Liora’s mother stayed at the top with the flashlight pointed toward the stairs.

“Don’t go too far. We don’t know whether any doors are open below.”

A rational sentence.

Not reassuring.

Her father descended with me.

Liora remained behind.

I could sense that she wanted to move ahead.

I could also sense that she wasn’t.

Halfway down, something scratched in one corner.

I froze.

So did Liora.

Her father raised one hand.

Silence.

The sound came again.

Small.

Dry.

I aimed the flashlight.

A rat?

A bag?

A monster?

Nothing.

Then a shadow passed beside a hole in the wall.

A mouse.

Probably.

I had never been so disappointed not to see a cat.

“We’re going back up,” her father said.

“Wait.”

I called again.

“Eugène?”

Nothing.

The silence answered with far too much diligence.

We went back outside.

The courtyard air felt almost warm.

A ground-floor neighbor opened her window.

“Are you looking for something?”

Liora turned.

“A gray-and-white cat. Have you seen him?”

The woman thought.

I wanted her to think faster.

Which was unfair.

No one was required to produce feline information under pressure.

“Not today,” she said.

Today.

The word struck me.

“You’ve seen him before?”

“The large one?”

I experienced a second of profoundly misplaced offense.

“Yes,” Liora replied. “The magnificent one.”

“He’s been in the courtyard before, hasn’t he?”

I straightened.

“What?”

The neighbor looked at me.

“I think so. A few weeks ago. On the wall. I saw him pass by from the window.”

I looked at Liora.

She looked at me.

So did her father.

Fine.

New information.

Wonderful.

My cat had therefore been leading a clandestine outdoor life under my roof.

Under my roof.

An inaccurate expression for an apartment, but indignation required materials.

“Are you certain?” her father asked.

“Gray and white, large tail, looked like he thought the place belonged to him?”

“That’s him,” Liora said.

“Then yes. Maybe. Cats look alike.”

An entirely useless sentence after describing his complete personality.

I took two steps toward the wall.

It ran along the back of the courtyard beside the bushes, then joined a small area between our building and the one next door. A kind of narrow service space with pipes, fencing, and the low roof of a bicycle shed accessible only from a difficult angle.

I had seen it a thousand times.

I had never actually looked at it.

Classic mistake.

The world contained far too many places you only noticed during a panic.

“Could he have gone there?” Liora asked.

She pointed toward the space behind the shed.

“Yes,” her father said. “But the passage is narrow.”

“For us.”

He didn’t answer.

Because she was right.

We moved toward the back of the courtyard.

The ground beside the wall was damp.

A mixture of dirt, leaves, and dust. I examined the marks as though I knew how to read an investigation.

I didn’t.

Obviously.

I could identify a poorly adjusted digital brush from fifty feet away, but not a cat’s paw print in mud.

Very useful, professional specialization.

Liora crouched beside the fence.

“Eugène?”

Her voice was low.

Actually low.

The name traveled into the narrow space.

Nothing.

Her mother shook the bowl of treats.

A tiny sound.

Again.

We waited.

Her father looked at the top of the shed.

“He could climb onto the roof from the bins, then the wall.”

I followed the route.

Trash can.

Wall.

Ledge.

Roof of the shed.

Then a gap between the shed and the neighboring wall.

Too narrow for us.

Not for him.

Obviously.

Liora shot upright.

Too quickly.

“I’ll check the other side.”

“Liora, wait.”

Her father and I spoke at the same time.

She stopped.

Her shoulders rose.

She wanted to leave.

Run.

Go around.

Check.

Do something forcefully enough to outrun the fear.

I understood that, in a different way.

I wanted to check the same places until I wore down the floor.

She wanted to expand the perimeter.

Two bad solutions that, together, perhaps made a decent search.

“We’ll go together,” her father said.

“Yes, but there’s a gate on the street side. I can go through the service entrance.”

“Not alone.”

“Dad.”

“Not alone.”

Definitive tone.

She clenched her teeth.

Then looked at me.

For one second, I thought she might ask me to decide.

A terrible idea.

I had no authority in this family.

I barely had authority over my own cat.

Current evidence: none.

“We can go around,” I said.

My voice sounded steadier.

Not because I felt better.

Because there was a direction.

A place.

An action.

That was already enormous.

We crossed the courtyard toward the gate.

Liora’s mother remained beside the wall.

“I’ll keep calling from here.”

She gently shook the treats.

“Eugène? Come here, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

More like heavyweight.

Her father opened the gate.

The street was louder than the courtyard.

Scooters.

Cars.

Voices in the distance.

Every sound became a threat.

An engine, especially.

An engine had suddenly gained the power to end everything.

I looked under the cars parked along the sidewalk.

Again.

Flashlight.

Wheel.

Oil on the ground.

Dust.

No cat.

Liora walked ahead, but more slowly than she could have.

I could see it.

Each time she moved two steps ahead, she slowed.

Looked back.

Not for long.

Just enough to check that I was following.

The argument was still there.

It hadn’t disappeared.

It walked with us, slightly behind, silent, less urgent.

“Does he know the street?” her father asked.

“No.”

Then I remembered the neighbor.

The wall.

The courtyard.

Everything I might not know.

“I don’t think so.”

More honest.

Less reassuring.

Liora didn’t comment.

We went around the building.

The service entrance was a small metal gate between two walls, wedged beside an electrical room. It had a high latch.

Liora reached through the bars.

“I can open it.”

“Liora,” her father said.

“I’ve opened it before to retrieve a ball.”

He looked at her.

“When?”

“That isn’t important right now.”

“It will be later.”

“Perfect. Threat recorded.”

She forced the latch.

The gate gave way with a deeply unpleasant squeal.

We entered a narrow passage behind the building.

The smell of dust, metal, cold earth.

Light barely reached inside.

Liora took out her phone and turned on the flashlight.

Her father did the same.

“Eugène?” I called.

Nothing.

We moved in single file.

Liora in front.

Me in the middle.

Her father behind.

A concerning arrangement for someone whose emotional stability already depended on a missing cat.

I looked at the ground.

Then the pipes.

Then along the wall.

A piece of fur.

No.

Moss.

Fine.

I was going to end up detaining every stone for questioning.

The passage opened onto the rear of the bicycle shed.

From this side, its roof reached chest height. A flat surface covered in leaves, dust, and small stones.

Liora directed her light over it.

“There.”

I froze.

A mark.

Not a cat.

A mark in the dust.

Several.

Small.

Round.

I didn’t know whether they were paw prints.

I wanted them to be paw prints.

I didn’t want them to be paw prints.

Her father leaned closer.

“Possible.”

A cautious word.

Terrible.

Liora was already placing a hand on the edge of the roof.

“I can climb up.”

“No,” her father said.

“I’m the lightest.”

“No.”

“Dad, if he’s behind there...”

“No.”

The third time, it was fear.

She heard it.

So did I.

She removed her hand.

Not entirely.

Her fingers remained on the edge.

Ready.

“We can look without climbing,” I said.

I raised the flashlight.

At first glance, the roof was empty.

Leaves.

An old deflated ball.

A gutter.

A pipe against the wall.

And at the back, where the roof met the neighboring building, a dark space between two ducts.

Very narrow.

I called again.

“Eugène?”

Silence.

Then.

A sound.

Almost nothing.

Not a clear meow.

Not the kind of sound that allowed you to say, There he is.

More like a short cry caught somewhere between air and stone.

I stopped breathing.

Liora immediately aimed her flashlight toward the back.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

Her father moved closer.

“Again.”

I stepped toward the edge.

“Eugène?”

This time, there was a meow.

Weak.

Hoarse.

Coming from behind the ducts, or the hollow between the roof and the wall.

My body had a simple reaction.

It wanted to climb.

Immediately.

Without a plan.

Without thought.

Highly unusual.

Very bad.

I placed both hands on the edge of the shed.

Liora caught my wrist.

Not hard.

Enough.

“Wait.”

I looked at her.

She was pale.

Her eyes were wide.

She was afraid too.

But her hand was holding me back.

Not to prevent me from acting.

To prevent the action from becoming a fall.

“We’re going to get him out,” she said.

She spoke quickly.

Then corrected herself.

Lower.

“We’re going to get him out.”

The meow came again.

Fainter.

Or the same.

I no longer knew.

From the courtyard, Liora’s mother called:

“Did you find something?”

Liora turned her head.

“We heard him!”

Then she left.

Immediately.

Too quickly.

Toward the other end of the passage, toward the courtyard, the wall, another way of reaching the roof.

“Liora!”

Her father followed.

I remained in front of the shed for a fraction of a second.

The beam of my flashlight shook across the leaves, the marks, the black hollow.

I wanted to tell her to slow down.

Liora.

Me.

Everyone.

But Eugène meowed again.

And this time, I ran.