Jack didn’t need a rabies shot. Since he hadn’t been bitten, the doctor said, he didn’t need one. Jack wasn’t really comfortable with that, but since there was a shortage (and there was always a shortage), he couldn’t just get a rabies vaccine “just in case.” He got a course of antibiotics for his hand, which was still red and painful, and was sent on his way. The whole appointment had taken less than thirty minutes.

The vet, on the other hand, was another matter.

The cat had absolutely no problem in the car: once settled in the passenger seat, he just curled up into a ball and fell asleep. He also let Jack pick him up without a problem, clinging to his shoulder a bit but not otherwise bothered by the crowded waiting room or the other people and their pets. The vet tech who took him in the back even remarked on how sweet the cat was. The cat let her wave a digital wand over him, to check for a microchip, and even received his vaccines and got his claws clipped short without complaint.

“He must be someone’s cat,” the vet tech said. “He’s honestly better than most of the pet cats we get in here. Strays are usually much, much worse behaved.” She didn’t know what to make of the weird spikes, either, but they didn’t seem to be hurting him. She didn’t think they could possibly be growing like fur, but short of getting an analysis of the spikes she couldn’t be sure what they actually were. The whole time, the damned cat was purring, letting her handle him, letting her pull gently on the spikes, and shamelessly begging for pets. She left the cat boneless and looking half-asleep on the exam table, still purring up a storm.

And then the vet walked in.

Almost immediately, the cat rolled over, bristled, and hissed. The spikes on its back were sticking straight up — Jack hadn’t even seen those earlier, when he’d made the mistake of trying to pull one out. When the vet took a step closer to the exam table, the cat launched himself onto a shelf overhead, backed into the corner between the shelf and the wall, and began to growl.

The vet froze, startled, then left the room and came back with the vet tech.

It didn’t help.

The cat really, really did not like the vet. By the time he had been cornered and held down with a towel, all three people in the room had been scratched multiple times by a cat who desperately wanted out. He had made for the door about five times, and twice had huddled behind the computer, spikes flaring. Squashed under the towel, his growls had turned into demonic yowls. Jack was honestly scared for the vet’s safety as he examined the cat with his bare hands.

When it was over, he asked the tech to take the cat out of the room. She did so gladly, the cat clinging to her, still half-wrapped in the towel. Jack and the vet watched as the door shut.

“I don’t know what that thing is,” the vet said, voice low as if afraid of being overheard, “but it is definitely not a cat. For one, those spines are all over its body. You thought they were growing from under the skin, and I agree — they are definitely a part of its coat. For another,” he rolled up his sleeve, showing red marks where he’d been caught by the cat’s spikes, “they appear to be mildly poisonous.” Like Jack’s hand the day before, the area on the vet’s arm around the bite marks was reddening as he watched. “I would recommend you leave it with us while you look for the owner; Ashley’s certainly right in that it could be someone’s exotic pet, but it’s clearly too dangerous and aggressive to handle on your own.” The vet gestured toward Jack’s hand, which was still bandaged from his trip to the doctor earlier that day.

“But that’s not what—” Jack started, then stopped. The vet had to have known that the cat-thing had been perfectly fine with Jack and with Ashley, the vet tech. Why else would he have had Ashley carry the cat out on her own? If he was truly dangerous, he would have attacked everyone in sight; instead, it was only with the vet himself in the room that the cat had gone berserk. The vet hadn’t been the only one scratched up, but the cat clearly didn’t have a problem with Jack or with anyone else.

He shook his head sharply. “I’ve got the room to keep him until I can find his owner. He’s pretty small, after all.” He forced a smile. “It’s not like he takes up a ton of space.”

The vet narrowed his eyes at Jack, looking skeptical. “If it’s not a cat, then you don’t even know what it eats.”

Jack didn’t see why that mattered in particular, since the vet also couldn’t possibly know what the cat would or wouldn’t eat. Unless he did know, Jack thought, which would mean he actually did know what the spiky cat was, or at least had a very, very good idea. He suddenly felt uneasy. Something was off here, even if Jack couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He wanted to get out of here, preferably with the weird spiky cat-thing in hand. Somehow over the past few hours he’d grown on Jack, and Jack definitely preferred to keep him around. Spikes and all.

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“I think,” Jack said, “that I’d like to keep him for the time being. If you have any suggestions on what kind of food he might eat?”

The vet stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, “I don’t have the faintest idea. But given the shape of its teeth, I would say something along the lines of raw meat or fish would be preferable.” He then turned and walked out the door.

Ashley came back with the cat shortly after. “Here he is,” she said to the cat, “I told you, you’d see him soon.” She handed the — now perfectly calm — cat to Jack. She waved at Jack and left the room.

Jack stopped at the desk to pay for the visit. Then he took the cat out to his car, settling him in the passenger seat once again before starting for home.

The entire drive home, Jack was preoccupied by what the vet had said. Raw meat and fish. It was pretty specific, and the fact that the vet hadn’t recommended trying actual cat food tugged at Jack. The vet had probably been lying. He likely knew exactly what the spiky cat was. He had also been quick to mention the fact that the spines were venomous — even Jack hadn’t come to that conclusion, and he’d been caught on them a full day before. For that matter, how did the vet even know Jack had been stabbed by the spikes?

Jack’s face went cold. Something not normal was going on here. He listed the events in his head. First his sister disappears. Then she seems to have been erased from existence. Now a cat that wasn’t a cat breaks into his apartment and the vet he takes him to just happens to know what the cat really is?

It was too much to be a coincidence.

Jack drove home, lost in thought.

----------------------------------------

The not-cat streaked away as soon as Jack put him down on the floor. Jack found him in the bedroom, curled in a little ball on his pillow.

Jack sighed. “Alright, buddy, let me try to get some food you can eat.” The cat just stared at him with bright eyes. Jack sighed again and made his way into the kitchen.

Raw meat and fish. The refrigerator was mostly empty, owing to the fact that he’d spent so many meals at his parents’ house lately. Jack paused, feeling guilty about missing dinner with them tonight before remembering that his parents…wouldn’t be expecting him like they had for the past month and a half. He took a deep, steadying breath against the pain that thought brought. He couldn’t do anything about Abigail until he figured out where to go next. Right now, he had a job: feed the spiky cat that was not actually a cat.

There was some chicken in the freezer that he’d been saving from the last time he’d been grocery shopping. At the time he’d hoped to make some soup, but he supposed that could wait in favor of feeding a kind of cute and sweet cat-thing. Jack smiled. He’d kind of gotten attached to the little guy. He set the chicken in the microwave and set it to defrost, then started a pan of water to make some pasta he’d dug out of the pantry.

When it was done, Jack set a small plate of defrosted, raw chicken in front of the cat. He really needed a name, Jack thought, though if he was someone’s pet he would already have one. He went back into the kitchen to dish out some pasta for himself and came back to sit on the bed. He wanted to see if the cat-thing really liked raw meat.

The plate was entirely empty. The cat was still curled in a ball, staring at Jack, just as he’d been before Jack had brought the plate of chicken. Jack did a double-take, then took the plate back and came back with some more chicken. The poor thing hadn’t eaten in about a day and a half, after all, and he had to be starving. Not to mention that strays tended to not be particularly well-fed to begin with, and Jack had no idea how long he’d been on the streets.

This time, when he put the plate down, he watched the cat like a hawk. Which is why he didn’t miss it the second time around.

The cat-thing sniffed the chicken briefly, still curled in a ball. Then he opened his mouth — far, far wider than a cat’s mouth should go — and swallowed it whole. Then he licked his lips and settled back and continued staring at Jack, who had paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

Well. That was a thing. Jack didn’t know how much meat a spiky cat-thing could or should eat, but he’d definitely already fed it a fair bit more than a normal cat ate in one go. He turned back to his own meal with relish, feeling slightly guilty at knowing the cat was still staring at him. It felt a bit like he was begging for food, instead of just…watching him.

Watching Jack eat food that the cat couldn’t actually eat, if the vet was to be believed. And after what he’d just seen, Jack was pretty sure the vet knew exactly what the cat-thing was. Which was more than a little suspicious, given that the cat-thing was pretty obviously not a normal part of nature.

Done with his dinner, Jack picked up both plates and washed them. He had a dishwasher, but living on his own he’d gotten used to just doing his dishes as he went. He didn’t think he’d ever turned the thing on at all in the year or so that he’d lived in his apartment.

The cat-thing was still curled up on his pillow, but appeared to be fast asleep. Jack stared at him, then decided to bite the bullet and picked him up and moved him off of the pillow. The cat just lay where Jack had put him, dead asleep.

Jack wished he would sleep as deeply. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to sleep well for a while now. Since Abigail disappeared.

Jack closed his eyes and wished for sleep.