My sketchpad was back in the drawer, the pencils untouched since yesterday's drawing of Father's hands. I hadn't had the strength to look at it again.
June appeared like she always did—suddenly, grinning, and completely unapologetic.
"Lock the door," she whispered, shutting it herself before I could move. "And promise me you won't scream."
"That's not comforting," I said warily.
She hauled the duffel bag onto the bed with the dramatic flair of a magician about to unveil a trick. It moved.
I sat up fast, backing into my pillows. "What the hell is that?"
She unzipped the bag halfway, and out popped a small, triangular ear.
Then another.
Followed by a head.
A kitten's head.
The creature blinked at me like it had been born just to make everything else irrelevant.
It was tiny—soft gray with patches of white on its nose and belly, with eyes that looked like melting gold. It meowed once, quietly, like it, too, knew it wasn't supposed to be here.
I stared at it. Then at June. Then back at it.
"You brought me a cat."
"A kitten," she corrected. "she's barely two months old. Found her behind the shelter dumpster. Can't keep her at home—my mom would scream bloody murder."
"So you brought her here?"
June flopped beside me on the bed, letting the kitten crawl out of the bag and into my lap. "You looked like you needed something alive that doesn't expect you to be anyone but yourself."
I looked down.
The kitten sniffed my wrist like she was considering whether I was edible, then promptly curled up on my thigh and purred.
Actually purred.
I didn't realize I was crying until June handed me a tissue.
"You're insane," I whispered.
She smiled. "A little."
I touched the kitten gently, afraid he'd disappear if I pressed too hard. Her fur was softer than anything in this cold, sterile place. She stretched out like she belonged here. Like she belonged to me.
"Does she have a name?"
"I thought you could give her one."
I blinked at her. "You want me to name her?"
"I want you to feel like you own something. Something that can't be taken away by Mother, or Father, or—any of them."
The kitten sneezed.
June laughed.
And just like that, the walls cracked.
---
Later that evening, after June left through the same window she always used, I stayed up just staring at the kitten—my kitten. She slept in a ball on my pillow like she was guarding me from nightmares.
Naming him took time. I tried out a few: Ghost, because she moved like one. Storm, because she'd come into my life like thunder behind June's grin. But neither fit.
In the end, I whispered: "Clover."
She didn't even twitch, but somehow, I knew it fit.
Clover.
A secret. A heartbeat all my own.
When the door creaked open hours later for nightly rounds, I shoved Milo gently under my covers and pretended to be asleep. The nurse—thankfully not the nosy one—took one glance, jotted a note on her clipboard, and left without a word.
Clover's head popped out moments later, and she rested her paw on my cheek like she was already used to having the final say.
I had a kitten and I was happy.
___
It was morning again. Or maybe it wasn't. The light didn't shift much in this hospital. It filtered in through frosted windows, always cold, always the same shade of pale gray. The kind of light that dulled colors and flattened the world into something sterile. But this morning was different because of the small, warm bundle curled at the foot of my bed—a fuzzy kitten named Clover, a gift from June.
She had smuggled her in last night, with crumbs in her hoodie pocket and mischief in her eyes. "You need a friend," she had whispered, placing the kitten in my hands like she was handing me something sacred. And I had clutched the little thing like she was. Clover hadn't left my side since.
The door clicked open softly, and I automatically straightened. Reflex. Habit. Survival.
I expected a nurse. Maybe even mother. But it was Noah.
He walked in holding a tray of vials, bandages, and those pale blue gloves. His expression unreadable, as always. But not cold—no, not like father. Just… measured.
"I need to take your blood," he said. No good morning. No "how are you feeling." Just straight to business. As usual.
I nodded, pushing up my sleeve before he asked. It was easier to comply. Easier than explaining that my body wasn't mine—that it belonged to Cassandra's chart.
Noah settled beside me, focused and silent as he set the tray down on the bedside table. I turned my face away, watching Clover stretch and bat playfully at the blanket.
"New addition?" he asked suddenly.
My head whipped back to him. His voice had softened. And—was that a smile? A real one?
"She's… Clover," I said. My voice sounded rusty. "June gave her to me."
"Good name." He wrapped the tourniquet around my arm, his fingers brushing against my skin just briefly—professional, impersonal. Still, it felt warmer than I expected.
I hated needles. Not for the pain. I had learned to live with that a long time ago. It was the reminder. Every puncture felt like a signature on the invisible contract I'd been born into.
He swabbed the inside of my elbow, and I watched the sterile gauze sweep across my skin like an eraser—except it never really erased anything.
Then, as he inserted the needle, he asked, "What's your favorite book?"
I blinked.
"What?"
He looked up. "You read, right?"
"Yes… I—yeah. I do." I felt my heart jump in my chest. No one ever asked me things like that. No one ever… cared.
His eyes met mine briefly, and something in them didn't feel like observation. It felt like curiosity. Gentle, but real.