“Mom, I’m cooking the rest of it,” she announces. “It’s starting to smell a little funky and I don’t want it to go to waste. Plus, the moment I came out here, the cats went nuts. I’ve been feeding them bits while we were waiting. I hope that’s okay.”

Her happy expression tells me that she’s loving the interaction with the cats. How can I be mad that she’s feeding them when Murr was the one that fed us in the first place? “It’s okay. Thank you for doing the cooking, honey. We’ll worry about smoking stuff next time.”

Rabbit looks wary and just a little surprised. Her gaze flicks to Murr, who’s picking up one of his cats, then back to me. “Is there going to be a next time? I thought we’d be leaving because of him. Because it’s not safe.”

I bite my lip and consider this. Logic says that it’s smartest to run fast and run far, but logic also doesn’t have much to say about situations like the one we’re in. I consider Murr and how he’s been acting. Other than that first day when he thought we’d stolen his kitten, he’s been calm and friendly. I shot him in the arm with a crossbow bolt and he didn’t lash out at us. He fed us, instead. He follows me and wants to know the words for things. “We’re not leaving just yet,” I say. “We don’t know how he’ll react if we try to leave. He’s clearly been collecting cats, so maybe he thinks we’re just a few more strays to feed.”

“I’m all right with that,” Rabbit says, and gives a little bounce in excitement. “That meat was so good I’m drooling for more.”

“I think he’s trying to learn English,” I admit. “He’s asked me a ton of questions.”

“Aww! That’s so sweet.”

I feel as if I’m a bad mom, though. Like I’m somehow not being stern enough about a random dragon-man showing up and taking over our encampment. “If you ever feel unsafe around him, though, I want you to tell me, okay? You’re my priority. I don’t care how nice he is to me if he scares you. Understand?”

“You could tell him to wear pants. I have a hard time looking him in the eye,” Rabbit says, and then giggles wildly when Murr jogs up. “Ohmigod, Mom, his dick is bouncing everywhere!”

I blush, too, because it really is. “We’ll get there, okay? Try and be patient for a little while longer.”

Murr, oblivious to our conversation, holds a cat up to me. “Eye? Dakotah, eye?”

I force myself to concentrate on the little calico being held up in front of my face and not the jiggling dong that distracts the eye. Because wow, it really IS distracting. I notice the cat is a younger one, eyes glued shut with yellow gunk. It meows, squirming in his grip.

Okay, this is good. He trusts me to help, and he remembers from before. “Heat some water, Rabbit. I’m going to get a T-shirt. Be right back.”

I gesture to Murr that I’ll help, but he needs to wait. Racing inside the bookstore, I grab my oldest shirt, because it’s also the softest. When the water is warm, I wet a corner of the shirt and instruct (with motions) for Murr to hold the cat still. I gently wipe its eyes clean, even though the cat cries in protest. Tomorrow we’ll try the cream, but I want to read up on it first.

Murr examines the cat and is pleased by the results. He showers it with affection, holding it close and stroking the triangular ears before setting it down.

“Here, baby,” Rabbit says, and holds a tidbit of meat out to the cat. It immediately grabs her hand with its front paws and snags the meat. This delights my daughter and Murr both.

The dragon-man immediately scoops up another cat and checks its eyes, then sets it down. He picks up another, and then another, and when he finds one that needs attention, he brings it over to me. “Eye?”

I nod and wet a fresh corner of the shirt. “Eye cleaning,” I tell him, and then gesture at the tabby in his hands. “Cat.”

“Cat hye cleeeng,” he agrees, pleased.

We clean the eyes of several cats of varying ages while the meat roasts and Rabbit goes through the cart, exclaiming over everything I’ve found. “Vitamins,” she cries. “We’ll be so healthy! And look, shampoo!”

It’s a sad world when your daughter gets excited about vitamins and shampoo. Rabbit reminds me every day to be grateful for what we have, and I want to hug her and squeeze her tight for being so wonderful. I would have given up a dozen times over if it weren’t for her sweet presence. She’s become my family and my everything. “I found a postcard, too. It’s near the bottom.”

Her joy fills my heart, and when I look over, Murr is smiling at me, too. Maybe all he wants is a family, too.

I get it. I really do.

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CHAPTER 16

DAKOTA

The next day, Murr brings a dead deer, with small three-pronged antlers. The meat is delicious and we season our portion and roast the larger amount into shreds to feed the cats. Murr doesn’t eat with us, but he never does. He probably eats deer when he’s out hunting.

He hangs around, too. He’s there when I wake up, and while he doesn’t follow us into the bookstore when we head to bed, he’s usually out in the parking lot when we do. It’s like he’s waiting for us to go to sleep before he feels he can.

“He definitely thinks of us as a couple of strays he has to feed,” Rabbit announces to me after a week of this.

I nod agreement, because what else can it be? I’ve never heard of dragons adopting humans as pets, but I’ve also gone out of my way to avoid forts—the human settlements—as much as possible. No one wants a young mother with a daughter unless one of us is willing to open her legs. I’d rather take my chances out in the wild on my own. I just worry it’s not the right choice for Rabbit as a young girl, but leaving her behind in a fort isn’t the answer, either.

Today, when Murr drops a deer for us, I realize immediately that it’s diseased. There’s something wrong with it, the hide mottled and strange. When I cut it open, the organs are discolored and off, and I pull away a kitten that’s trying to climb the hide. “This is bad, Rabbit. We can’t eat this one. It’s sick. I don’t know if the meat is any good or not.”

We examine it together, and Murr arrives while we poke at the deer corpse. I hate to turn down a gift, but I show him the innards of the deer and shake my head. “Meat’s bad.”

“Bad?” he echoes. It’s a word he’s picked up recently. “Meat no good? No cats? No Dakota?”

I’m impressed at his grasp of our language after only a few days. I shake my head. “No, it’s no good for them or for us.”

One of the cats rubs against his leg and meows plaintively. Murr scoops it up and strokes the cat’s head, thinking. He sets the cat down again and gestures at the dead buck. “Meat…” He pauses, trying to find the right words. Through a variety of hand-signals and the few words he does have, he tells us his plan—he’s going to get rid of the bad meat and find something new.

“Murr yes meat Dakotah Ribbit cats,” he declares. Then he gestures at the ground again. “Stay.”

With that, he springs into the air, changing into his dragon form right over our heads and nearly scaring the shit out of me. I bite back a whimper of terror because it’s just Murr, and watch as he scoops up the dead deer and heads off. The cats screech a protest, meowing wildly and circling around us.

“You guys are spoiled,” Rabbit says to them. “He’ll be back.”

I look around the parking lot, and more cats are flooding over, tails up with excitement. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough. He knows they’re hungry. We can go ahead and start a fire for now.”

While I pull firewood from our small stack and add it to our designated “firepit” (basically just a pothole in the parking lot), Rabbit plays with the cats. She’s crafted a feather toy on a shoelace, and the cats go wild for it. Each time they lunge, my daughter laughs with delight, and it’s the best sound in the world. I grew up with pets, and it’s so hard to tell her we can’t take care of one. I know she’s an animal lover and she’s lonely, but we can’t feed a cat. They’re meat eaters. Maybe a dog would be different, but we haven’t had the opportunity to find one to adopt.