XCI

Somebody knocks on the door. Henry rolls his eyes and continues reading with no intention of getting off the couch. It's probably a door-to-door salesman—they've become a real pest in recent times. After all, Eleven has her own keys, so he isn't worried about h—

"Henry." His name comes to him in a weak voice. "Let me in, please."

He drops the book as if it had burned him, gets up from the couch and, in a few strides, he is there, slamming the door open.

"What's going on?" The question is instinctive because that tone of voice does not bode well…

And he knows that his suspicions are not entirely wrong when he sees Eleven disheveled, her dress coated with sand, her face red and swollen from crying, and a white cat in her trembling arms.

"It's… heavy… Help…?"

Henry extends his arms without hesitation so she can carefully place the animal in them.

"Calm down," she tries to calm it down as the cat lets out a hiss, "it's just Henry… He's not going to hurt you…"

The cat does not seem entirely convinced, but accepts being handed over—or, at least, that is what he deduces from the fact that it has not tried to gouge out his eyes. As soon as they are free, Eleven's arms fall limply to her sides; she sighs in relief.

Henry notices she's exhausted, yet he can't wait a moment longer either. "Eleven… What does this mean?" He wrinkles his nose when he sees an open wound on the animal's back; it is the source of the nauseating smell that he's only now noticing.

"The cat… needed help," she explains. "It called me…"

"It called you?"

"It meowed," she clarifies, as if that clears up any doubt. "It meowed and meowed until I found it and… And I couldn't leave it there."

"And that's why you were crying?"

Eleven looks down. "I don't want to talk about it."

Obviously, he hates that she doesn't tell him what's going on, but he's grateful that at least she isn't lying to him.

"Okay," he then agrees. "Regarding the cat… What do you want to do?"

The girl observes the animal in her arms carefully. "It's… hurt. I can call Dustin and… He has cats," she clarifies, no doubt sensing his confusion. "He knows…"

Eleven doesn't say more, as she is already walking towards the phone with her head down.

Henry has his arms crossed, his back pressed against the white wall of the vet's office. Eleven, on the other hand, observes with curious eyes every movement of the veterinarian that Dustin has recommended to her.

"It's a male of about five years old... You said you found him like this?" she asks. Eleven nods in response. "Hm… I've seen a few cases like this throughout my career. Unfortunately, we're dealing with a cancerous tumor. We'll run some checks to be sure, of course, but I'm pretty certain of it."

Eleven frowns. "Can cats have… cancer?"

The doctor nods, and Henry notices the sadness in her eyes. Personally, he does not feel any connection with animals, but he understands, from an objective point of view, that it is normal for people to empathize with them and not wish for their suffering.

"Yes, they can. And, according to my experience... Well, it's likely the disease is very advanced."

Henry doesn't take his eyes off Eleven, who opens and closes her mouth, over and over again, not knowing what to say.

Finally, she asks: "Is there… a cure?"

The vet sighs. "At this point, there's not much that can be done for him. My recommendation? If you don't want to put it to sleep…" Eleven's horrified expression seems to dissuade her from finishing that sentence. "I thought so. Well, in any case, painkillers and ointments to relieve his suffering and… giving him a home and lots of love."

Henry sees the exact moment Eleven's heart breaks—it happens when she hears the doctor's next words: "So he can experience happiness at least during his life's last weeks."