Vis avis

These cats might know what's up, but your only primate pretext for trespassing is curiosity.

---

Hal's last words to you:

In the doorway, making futile motions for you to put down your bag and hug him properly, a joking reminder. "Behave yourself." It's a joke, like telling the sun to keep on shining.

The sensation of pinions on the back of your neck a tickling distraction from the ghost of Hal's non-kingfisher embrace. You couldn't tell from within your winter layers if that was a real, tangible trace of what he should've been, or a series of anticipatory reflexes on your end.

You haven't looted any stores yet, because it's only been four days, goddamnit. You're not some rugged urban survivalist - strolling round town, a chip on your shoulder and delusions in your head that an apocalypse is just the shake-up society needed to truly appreciate your profoundly misanthropic skillset. That isn't you.

Until further evidence bid you reconsider, the party line would be that normal services were disrupted. Functionally identical in the interim to normal services straight up not existing anymore, but you'd take comfort in it while there was nobody to argue the distinction. It's a covenant, Something Important to uphold, until you get a sign from above that your self-righteous efforts are needed elsewhere.

Disrepair, neglect; depressing, but depressing you can handle. You ease into it all like a forgotten, much-loved, emphasis-the-d piece of clothing. It's drab, but it's comforting if you can look past that. Forgive an old friend. Ascribe "forgiven" as easily and ephermially as you ascribe "friend" to inanimate objects.

---

Grimes meows at you, distinctly judgemental. It's returned to the strip of dirt and plastic planters passed off as a front yard. You're startled, almost to anger, but you feel the emotions welling up and cut them off. You maintain eye contact, at least, as you chew the cat out.

"I- I've got principles. Soon as I start breaking into people's places, that's it. That's the apocalypse."

Grimes gives you a look like "Bro. Call it what you like, but only one of us is sporting tin-opening privilege here. Also, fuck your humansplaining. I'm a cat. I'm the earthly manifestation of not giving a fuck."

You're probably just projecting. Grimes struts away to the back of the property again. Its tail says "whatever" as clearly as if you'd tied a lit sparkler to it and let the afterimages burn your retinas.

It... wouldn't hurt if you go knock on the door, right? You could make something up about seeing their cat across campus and... bringing it back? You consider the idea until it shrivels up in your head from the embarassment of your scrutiny. A notion so terrible it wished it had never been born. Typical.

You're still rooted by the mailbox. It's a generic Home Depot affair, flanked on its flat faces by lashed-on corrugated cardboard that's been cut out to resemble some kind of video game monster with an insatiable appetite for bills and coupons. One of the old Nintendo ones? It's slightly off-kilter, bolted to a vertical post on a peeling fence that's being shoved aside by poor choices in landscape design.

Then the front door opens, and a woman steps out.

"Are you coming in or not?"