Living on the streets ain’t difficult. Really, it ain’t. In a large city like this, I can usually get whatever I want, especially with the university nearby. If I need money, I’ll walk the subways, looking both tremendously sad and tremendously thankful — the Chinese tourists usually eat that stuff up. If I need food, I’ll use the money at a dining hall where the staff aren’t paid enough to care. If I need to look presentable, I’ll sneak into one of the dorms, where I get free laundry and showers. I’m sure the students won’t mind a couple ounces missing of soap and detergent. Even sleep isn’t an issue. Blankets are awfully cheap these days, and if security doesn’t want me on the park benches, I can always pretend that the ground is just a big tatami mat, or something. I’d like to think I look pretty normal most days, but sometimes you get the feeling that people know. There’s the quick glance followed by an averted gaze, the slight increase in walking pace. I’ve heard that a lot of people like to ask themselves if they’ve been good people, and if that reputation is hurt by not donating to the homeless. I find that rather amusing. There are no good or bad people in the world, just people trying to survive. Plus, it’s not like I remember any of their faces anyway. One night, when I’m wandering the streets looking for rocks to kick, I spot a black cat. Most street cats would probably run or shy away, but this one’s different. It approaches me tenderly, meowing softly and staring up with expectant eyes. I feel its soft fur as it headbutts my leg, and it purrs softly as I give it a tentative head scratch. “I don’t have any food for you, man,” I say, but the cat doesn’t seem to mind. It circles me once, twice, thrice — then curls up at my feet. I allow a slight smile. Grunting, I lower myself to the ground too, sitting criss-cross with my back leaning against the wall. I stroke the cat’s back this time, eliciting more grateful purrs, and the cat closes its eyes and settles its head on a paw. If it’s a good enough sleeping spot for a cat, I reason, it’s a good enough sleeping spot for me. People are still ambling about. I think it’s a Friday evening, meaning restaurants are open late to keep the students happy. Funny how a cat changes things. People seem a little more willing to look my direction, and they hold their smiles a little longer, too. Maybe I’ll keep the cat. [hr] It is very late, and I am very hungry. It’s a little odd, given my appetite has tanked this semester, but I’m not one to say no to a good meal. There’s a cheap little Korean restaurant near the front of campus that sells some really good bulgogi, and I need all the protein I can get for the night’s pick-up soccer game. Turning the final corner, I pick up the pace, eager to savor the rich flavor. The first thing I notice is the small cat curled up in the corner. It notices me too, peeking through a semi-open eye before shifting around to go back to sleep. Its adorableness almost makes my heart stop. I’d pet it, but I don’t want to bother the homeless dude sleeping right next to it. He notices me too, though, this time through both eyes. I don’t want him to think I’m some rude asshole for staring for too long, so I quickly hop into the Korean restaurant nearby and order my food. Finding a seat is difficult; the place is packed with late-night diners. I choose a solitary chair by the window. There’s another nearer to the edge of the room, where I could probably hide my thoughts more easily, but there’s a piece of poop-shaped meat in the center of the chair which I’m hesitant to move. As I wait for my food, I gaze outside, staring at the flickering neon lights that make me feel like I’m in a thunderstorm. The window is translucent, and all of a sudden I realize I’m staring directly at the homeless dude from earlier. I internally curse. He’s probably looking back at me, too. I snap my head away and when the bulgogi arrives, I can only focus on maintaining eye contact with the dish at all times. [hr] One of my rituals before going to sleep is reading the daily paper — it is free, after all. I’m on the comics section when the guy I saw earlier exits the restaurant. With anxiety written on his face and slow, jerky movements, he tiptoes forward before rapidly shaking his head and approaching me. “Hi,” I say. “Hey, I, uh —” He takes a deep breath. “Is that your cat and can I pet it?” I scoff. “Go ahead. It’s not mine.” I raise an eyebrow as he sits down beside me. With practiced motions, he gently cups the sleepy cat’s head, scratching its cheeks and chin. “I don’t see many friendly cats like this,” he says. “Most of the other cats I only see at like, four in the morning, and you can’t get within ten feet of them.” “Yeah,” I reply. I don’t tell him about all the other things I’ve seen cats do at four in the morning. “Anyways,” he continues. “I know people say you’re supposed to give homeless people food over money, so —” I feel him internally cringing at that statement, and I cringe a little too. “Okay, I’m sorry. I worded that completely wrong. Is it okay if I, you know, get you a hot meal for tonight or something? The restaurant I was in has some really good food.” The last meal I had was yesterday’s dinner, and my stomach knows it. I stare hesitantly at the cat, though, and he notices. “I can, uh, stay here and look after the cat,” he suggests. “Just… just get anything you want on the menu.” He stands up and fumbles through his pocket, pulling out a wallet. He quickly fishes out a twenty, and hands it to me. “Here, have this. You can keep the change.” I size the kid up. He may have the social skills of a platypus, but at least he has a good heart. “Hey, thanks man. Much appreciated,” I reply, and take the twenty. [hr] When he walks inside the restaurant, I sink to my knees again. [i]I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid. That’s all I could think to say? I might as well just leave here, and the university entirely.[/i] The cat shifts in its sleep again, dispelling my thoughts. I give it another tentative stroke, and lean back onto the wall. Resigning myself to missing the soccer game, I pull out my phone and mindlessly play some dumb word game. That way, as people pass by, they'll just see some random college kid who found a stray cat, as opposed to… you know. Ten minutes pass, and he’s back outside with a takeout bag in his hand. Without a word, he places the change in front of me, and goes back to his original sitting spot. I gather it up and place it back in front of him. “Seriously, take it,” I insist. “I mean, you don’t look like a druggie or anything. So it’s yours.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? After the whole ‘food not money’ thing —” “That was stupid,” I interject. “Just take it.” “Thanks, then,” he responds, and puts the money in his pocket. We sit there in silence for a couple minutes, and I watch him unpack his meal, quickly blowing on the Japchae. I recognize it as the cheapest item on the menu. It’s small, and it doesn’t take too long for him to devour everything. When he wipes his mouth for the last time, I speak up again. “Is it okay if we just, uh, talk for a little bit? I guess I’m just curious, about everything. I guess I’d just like to know you better as a person.” He shrugs. “Sure. Not like I have anything better to do.” “Cool, thanks.” I smile. “So how’d you get here? I’d like to think that you’d be, you know, under care somewhere.” “You’ve heard the story a million times before,” he says. “Parents were drunks. One day I decided I’d stopped caring enough about school to stay, so I didn’t.” He’s right; I have heard the story before. It hurts to admit it, but the more it happens the harder it gets to care about each instance. I do my best to invest in the situation regardless. “Are you thinking about returning back to schooling?” I ask. “I mean, besides the university, there’s two middle schools and a high school nearby.” “Maybe,” he replies. “But that would be kind of difficult, given my, you know, situation.” We talk back and forth, until it’s too dark to see. As the cat snores away, I bid my goodbyes, sprinting towards the subway before the last train pulls away. It’s been the longest conversation I’ve had in months, maybe ever. [i]Who knows[/i], I think. [i]Maybe I’ll see him again[/i]. [hr] The black cat is gone by the time I wake up. I sigh. It was good while it lasted. The next week, there’s a protest near campus. It’s about a bunch of political crap that I don’t really care about, but I do care about the masked strangers that show up in droves. There’s conflict afoot, and everyone can smell it. The city put up signs. “No bricks. No rocks. No pepper spray. No knives or daggers.” There are a couple funny ones too. “No maces. No ice picks. No shields.” [i]Idiots[/i], I think. [i]I bet they’ll just bring bows instead[/i]. It turns out I’m half right. They bring a model trebuchet, as a political statement or something. It gets confiscated anyway. As I walk away from the chanting, as if by divine luck, I spot the black cat again. It laps at some water spilled on the street before freezing as it notices me. It runs up to me again, headbutting my leg like last time. “Hey again, buddy,” I say. “Sorry, but I still don’t have any food for you.” The cat meows, and saunters away a short distance. Then it turns its head back, as if expecting me to follow. So I do. It twists and turns through alleyways I’ve never been through before. When it comes to a halt, I see him again. He’s asleep on a park bench, backpack under his head like a makeshift pillow. “Are you God?” I ask the cat. It doesn’t reply, of course, but it does jump onto the bench and bat at his face. He jumps, and for a brief moment I see wild-eyed bewilderment on his face. He calms down, though, and laughs. “For a moment, I thought you were Antifa,” he says. “But hey, fancy meeting you again.” “Why are you just sleeping on a random bench?” I inquire. He sighs. “School’s been a bitch. I get sleep when I can.” He pauses. “You know, I just found out the uni has sleep pods. I’ve found car seats more comfortable, but I guess I could sneak you into the library, if you wanted to try them out.” I shrug. “Nah, I’m okay where I am.” “Well, if you’re happy where you are,” he says. “By the way, I was thinking. Real quick, do you think you could take this test?” He pulls out a laptop from his backpack and quickly types something. He flips the screen around so I can see, and I am greeted with a website embedded with so much clip art that it belongs in the nineties, probably. “It’s a reading test,” he begins. “I just thought I could get you something to do, you know.” The questions are easy at first, and I roll my eyes. I enlighten myself with the newfound knowledge that a small circular object can be called a ball. The test picks up, though, and I find myself struggling with the grammar before the website outputs a reading. I hand the computer back over to him and he looks it over. “Anyways,” he says. “I gotta run to class now, but tomorrow I’ll start bringing some reading material for you. If you’d like it, of course. I’ll hang around the south side of campus for a while so you can find me. See ya.” He takes off, and it’s just me and the cat again. I stare at the cat suspiciously. “You know,” I say, “you never answered my question earlier.” The cat licks its paw innocently, but I swear I see it wink for a second. [hr] Walking back to class, I tell myself two things. One. I am an absolute genius. Two. I am an absolute idiot. For one thing, I’ve probably made a friend. I’ll read some books together with him, and we’ll talk about them together. We won’t have to find each other by chance anymore. On the other hand, I haven’t read worth shit in the past couple years. It’s a miracle I even made it to college. Even worse, I’ve just committed myself to reading back at the sixth grade level. [i]Well[/i], I tell myself, [i]a deal’s a deal[/i]. The next day I’m back with two identical books in my backpack, and he shows up, too. We start off relatively easy, and I get to experience the joy of reliving my childhood. First, we finish [i]A Wrinkle in Time[/i], which turns out to be splendid. Next is [i]Eragon[/i], which takes him a little over three weeks. Somehow, we develop a routine — every couple of weeks, we meet at a café, I buy him lunch, and we mull over literature. It’s a miracle I have the time or energy to do any of it, but I’m there regardless, and so is he. [hr] Winter comes, and I develop a nasty cough. I have the month alone to myself; all the students are home for the break. It sucks, being sick and lonely. [hr] It sucks, being home for the holidays. Christmastime is prime time for three syllable hunting grounds, it seems. Gee pee ayy, resumé, and dishonor seem to be the big ones this time around. My parents don’t seem to be a big fan of my acquaintances, either. According to them, I’m not supposed to be associating with people “lesser” than me. The day after Christmas, I get a vision. I wake up, hands trembling and legs quaking. I don’t remember much from the dream, but there’s not much that needs to be explained. In the dream, the black cat is there, but it’s small. Dark shadows dance along cavern walls, and when I turn around, a raven the size of a house is there. It’s abstract, and I can barely see where its feathers start and end, but in its claws lies the shape of my friend. Without hesitation, I take the subway all the way back to school. When I get there, I already see the black cat. It doesn’t surprise me, even though I haven’t seen it for months. Regardless, it leaps away, and I sprint after it, fearing for the worst. Thankfully, that’s not what I get. He’s still alive, but the doctors say he has pneumonia. It takes him a week before he’s fully conscious again, and the doctors recommend he stays for additional monitoring. Two weeks later, that diagnosis gets upgraded to cancer. [hr] Living on the streets ain’t difficult. Living in a hospital sure is. One time when I wake, the doctor and my friend are having an argument. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no way your diagnosis is correct.” The doctor sighs, adjusting his glasses with frail hands. “Again, we’ve run through all the tests, and I’m sorry.” “I need more information, sir. Surely that’s something you can provide.” The doctor notices I’m awake. It turns out that more information can be provided. Thirty minutes later and I’m done filling out the release of information form. It’s not like I understand what I have, anyway. [hr] It’s the worst feeling in the world knowing that the tumor is malignant. “They called it Pleuropulmonary Blastoma,” I say glumly. “When you were born, some of your cells mutated the wrong way. It was a small detail, but one that pushed its way to the surface eventually.” He stays quiet. “You can fight it, you know?” I plead. “There’s a saying. ‘When people get cancer, they die. It’s not the cancer that kills them — it’s the fear.’” [hr] Bullshit. People die of cancer because cancer kills people. It’s the worst feeling in the world knowing that that the past couple months, and everything really, didn’t matter. In retrospect, it seemed like a joke. I’d accomplished so much, yet so little. In the end, it had just been a whisper, a breath in the ebb of time. Tears stream down his face. He yells, but his voice is steady. “You’re fifteen! Cancer isn’t supposed to claim fifteen year olds! Homelessness isn’t supposed to claim fifteen year olds! You’ve had this shitty, terrible life, and life is just finding one way after another to kick your ass.” He clenches his fist angrily. “If there’s a god somewhere out there, he’ll pay.” All of a sudden, lightning flashes outside, and I realize it’s raining. When I regain my vision, the black cat is back, right outside my window, somehow. My friend’s eyes widen, and his face morphs into an expression of pure, unbridled rage. “YOU!” he shouts. “It was you!” He dashes towards the window, and I can smell murder. “Stop!” With my fading energy, I call out, and he somehow listens. I watch as the black cat, drenched in water, blinks slowly. “You’re wrong. When I was reading, I found a cat called Oscar, that always slept next to terminally ill patients who were about to… die. Maybe this cat just knew. Maybe it was a kindred spirit or something, who just wanted to offer me comfort.” He relents, burying his face in his hands. “You’re only fifteen,” he repeats. I gaze at his devastated figure. Just a couple months ago, I’d never met him. In a couple months, I’d learned to look up to him, and here he was, breaking down in front of me for the first time. Fate was funny like that. In the moment, I feel a strange kinship with the black cat. “Hey, man,” I say. “I never had a chance to truly thank you for everything you’ve done.” When I first met the black cat, it seemed lost, and I took it in. “When I first met you, I was lost. You gave me something to look forward to, and I really appreciate that.” “Bullshit,” he responds. “Do you remember how awkward I was at first? How insensitive? If anything, I should be thanking you, you know. You’ve been dealt all this crap, and you were living life regardless. I don’t think I could’ve done that.” We embrace. When I look up, the black cat is gone. I’m reminded of something else I learned about cats. Cats don’t fear death like humans do, partly because they don’t even have a good understanding of it. Maybe I’ll just have to make do like that. And maybe, just like cats do, I’ll embrace it when it happens. But maybe I won’t. Mother Nature gave cats claws and fangs to fight with, after all. Maybe that’s what the black cat wanted from me. “I’ll fight it,” I finally say. “And I’ll beat it. We’ll get through this, together.” Outside, the rain starts to clear up. It’s still afternoon, and the sun is starting to make another appearance. I offer a hand, and my friend takes it. “Yeah. Together.”