While Hooman #1's father
takes a plane with DeeJAY
to conduct early reconnaissance
in the City of Sin,

Hooman #A leaves
with Major Tom and Gregory
in a private train car
to join up on the front-lines,
where they'll work together
against the red ping
of a suspicious lizardman.

I want to help
the intelligence team
but I'm harrowingly tired
from the anemia,

so instead I sleep
in the hooman bed
with the light, knitted quilt
and emo throw pillows
Hooman #1 brings home
from Hot Topic
after Thanksgiving
every year.

Fifteen years of throw pillows
mark the satisfying passage
of many autumns
as alpha of Cat Society #337.

But I'm no longer
measuring time
in a forward momentum;
this passage
has started to fade.

I'm slipping back
under the gauze
of cat-napping
into a memory

when I was only
two winters old

and my brother, Loki,
sped with me
through the apartment hall

moments before
Hooman #1 opened
the twice-white-painted door
with peeled-to-the-wood corners
from all the times
I rubbed our entryway
to mark my place.

I'm slipping back
in the watery cool of dreams
to when I was eight

and Loki was kneading
a blanket folded
in Hooman #1's lap,

but I didn't know
until I jumped up
and bumped into him.

Hooman #1 laughed
harder than I'd heard
her laugh before

as Loki and I
swerved together
in a current
in sync
to nap in the lap
of our best friend.

I'm slipping back
into the warmth
of the same hooman hand

petting me in my sleep,

petting me in my dreams,

petting me when
I am twelve years old,
after Loki has gone,

and I'm lying in the sun
of the backyard
with a white butterfly
fluttering into a blinding light.

Phoebe:
It's a trap.

Then I startle
awake at the sound
of Phoebe's voice

and the One and Only Bengal
stares down at me
with the sunset glow
of the hooman world
ringing around her
like a pink-and-orange halo.

Hooman #1 was just here
petting me
and asking me
if I'm having good dreams,

but now she's exercising
her glorious thumbs
on cans of wet food.

Buttercup is howling
in the kitchen for first bite,
which means Lahea
is the only one
monitoring the computers.

I want to chastise Phoebe
for leaving Lahea alone
but I don't.

Phoebe:
You hungry?

Philosopher Jones:
I think so.

Phoebe:
You're not ready
to die yet, then.

Philosopher Jones:
Thanks for that.

Phoebe:
Yup.

I was four years old
when Hooman #1 came through
the twice-white-painted-door

and Loki and I hurried
just in time
to reach half-hooman #Z—
a half-lizardman, half-hooman,
and Hooman #1's
old companion—
only for him
to shoo us away

then disappear
into their bedroom
with a kitten
covered in white stripes
and black spots,
patterned like a jungle
across her silver pelt
of impenetrable armor.

Thirteen years later,
Phoebe knows me
better than the rest
of Cat Society #337.

I love her as much
as I loved my brother.

Phoebe:
But you are,
well,
still dying,
right?

I close my eyes
in agreement.

Phoebe:
So this is important.
Don't go through
the tunnel of light—
it's a trap.

Philosopher Jones:
How do you know?

Phoebe:
I read about it once.

Philosopher Jones:
On the Internet?

Phoebe:
Very funny.
Listen, though.
If you go in,
you'll be reincarnated
in a loop
in the matrix
indefinitely.
And the labyrinth
becomes more complex
the longer it lasts.
You won't ascend.

Philosopher Jones:
In what strange
arm of the Milky Way
did you read that?

Phoebe:
The same library
of esoteric books
with all the knowledge
of the Babylonians.

Philosopher Jones:
So while I was studying
the enemy in
the conspiracy theory annex,
you were researching
the simulation theory
in the new age aisle?

Phoebe:
You and I both know
the simulation is more
than a piddling theory.
And is it so wrong of me
to try to figure out
what happened to Loki?

I open my mouth,
but a yawn comes out
and Phoebe backs up
at the sight of my fangs,
gnarled and worn
from many battles.

Silence tries to impregnate
itself between us.

Then Phoebe
licks my forehead,
and both of us purr.

I huff and search
for a response.

Philosopher Jones:
I want you to know
when I'm gone
that I'm okay.
And I'll tell Loki
you've been thinking
about him, so
you don't have to dwell;
it's better if you
live on for us
then spend the time
you have left
trying to figure out
where our souls go next.

Phoebe:
I disagree.

Philosopher Jones:
Of course you do.

Phoebe:
If I don't figure out
where you and Loki go,
how will I find you
when it's my time
to head to the wormhole
the hoomans call
the rainbow bridge?

Philosopher Jones:
I know I'll find Loki.
I don't need hooman
books to do it,
and neither will you.

As Hooman #1 slips
into the bedroom,
she closes the door
behind her; and she closes
the door to the bathroom, too.

I'm relieved
she interrupts us
with delicious dinner,
even if it's turkey
rather than
the ever-elusive octopus.

Phoebe mewls
between bites of gravy.

When Hooman #1 looks up
to see if I'm also
celebrating food,
I know I can stay silent;
I know, if I wait,
Hooman #1 will
forgive my lack
of enthusiasm,

yet she'll also see
my inactivity
as a setback:
as a sign
the cancer is winning.

And I'm not ready
for the cancer to win.

Yet I'm also not sure,
even if I was ready,
I'd let anyone know.

So I meow huskily
as I drink turkey broth
while Hooman #1
sings a nursery song
modified with my name in it
from her perch
at the foot of the bed,
glowing with the same
orange-and-pink halo
of falling sunlight.