Marcus returned carrying a small cardboard box lined with one of our old towels. Something inside moved. Then a tiny gray kitten lifted its head over the edge and let out the weakest little meow I had ever heard. I just stared at him. Three nights earlier, Marcus had found her shivering beneath our back porch after hearing scratching outside our bedroom window.

He had taken her to an emergency vet, who said she was underweight and needed medication and frequent feeding. Marcus knew I would immediately want to bring her inside, but the veterinarian had recommended keeping her separated from our older cat until her tests came back. So he had made a warm little shelter in the garage and had been sneaking downstairs throughout the night to feed her. He switched sides because mine was closest to the bedroom door, letting him get up without climbing across me.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked.
He looked embarrassed. “Because her final test came back today. She’s healthy. I wanted to surprise you.”

Then he handed me the box.

Tucked beneath the kitten was a tiny collar with a tag already attached.

On one side was our phone number.

On the other was the name Lucy—the name I had once said I would give a gray kitten if we ever found one.