Chapter 27

At five in the afternoon, the groceries Ai Qing had ordered arrived.

Xiao Yu, crouched by the front door, had caught the elevator’s clatter long before the bell rang. Strange footsteps; she behaved and didn’t open.

She sprinted to the bedroom doorway and meowed, over and over.

Usually one polite “meow” was her limit—this was a speech.

Inside, fingers flying over his keyboard, Ai Qing thought it odd. He stepped out, opened his mouth, and the knock landed.

“Delivery for you.”

He took the plastic bag, shut the door, then stared down at Xiao Yu, whose tilted head tracked him like a sunflower.

“You were calling me to fetch it?”

His old cat had never been that sharp.

Sure, some prodigy pets reached genius after months of clicker-training, but Ai Qing’s training program was “eat, drink, stay healthy.”

Now she opened doors and summoned him... because he’d told her not to open them herself?

Could she actually understand him?

“Do you understand me?” He knelt. “Nod if you do.”

Xiao Yu cocked her head, willing the warm current to rise into her brain, but two full sentences were still too much, too fast.

“All right.” He sighed—wishful thinking.

He scratched her ears, stood, and headed for the kitchen to bake a cat-special birthday cake.

Xiao Yu panicked; the warm flow inside her was almost gone.

She needed contact, more flow, but the sliding door thumped shut, leaving her in the living-room like a forsaken wife staring through glass.

Better than nothing.

Through the panel the trickle felt as thin as half a pinky.

She channeled every drop to her head, yet her mind remained an ocean where the drip didn’t even ripple.

Still, something shifted—she sensed her skull could hold... more.

Pity.

Yesterday she’d griped the current filled too fast, spilling until she turned human.

Now she understood its new use—and needed more.

Blame the afternoon transformation; she’d burned the tank dry.

More cuddles required.

She flopped outside the kitchen, eyes on his busy back, plotting.

...

Ai Qing pulled pre-cut sardines from the bag, set water to boil, and poached them.

While they simmered he dunked the peeled shrimp he’d prepped earlier, fished them out the second they curled, and minced them into paste.

Soon the sardines were done; he lifted them out and chopped fine.

He measured a quarter of Xiao Yu’s usual kibble, crushed it in a bowl, and tamped the crumbs into a tiny mold—palm-sized base.

Layer two: the shrimp paste, smoothed like frosting.

Layer three: another quarter-portion of crushed kibble.

Layer four: the flaked sardine.

A cake, sort of.

He slid it onto a dinner plate, scattered three crumbled freeze-dried treats across the top, then reached for two cat treat sticks.

With the first he piped a crude XIAO and a stick-figure fish.

The second he squeezed in a ring around the edge.

Finally he planted a single dried fish upright in the center—birthday candle.

One year of Xiao Yu.

Perfect.

He stepped back, admiring the palm-sized masterpiece, grinning like a pastry chef.

Hope she likes it.

He nudged the sliding door with his foot, carried the plate to the dining table.

Odd: the smell of kibble didn’t catapult her onto the tabletop.

Instead she shadowed his ankles, brushing her cheek against them every other step.

Ai Qing: “?”

“What’s this, a thank-you?”

He knelt, scooped her up.

She lay still, trusting, and something in his chest tightened—usually the whiff of food erased him from her universe.

Today, faced with fish, shrimp, treats and sticks, she’d waited.

What he didn’t know: she was in heaven.

Ankle-rubs had swollen the warm flow to thumb-thick; full-body contact flooded her in a three-finger gush.

So thick.

So much.

More, more—almost spilling again.

“Okay, birthday first.”

Unaware, he set her on the table.

From the delivery sack he produced a second cake—human-sized—and one candle.

He placed her opposite him, slid the cat cake before her, centered his own, and stuck the single candle in his dessert.

Wax on her cake might drip—unsafe; he’d risk his own.

“Now, lighter—crap.”

He didn’t smoke; no lighter in the house.

Clever, he held the candle over the stove burner, ignited it, jogged back, and planted the flaming stick.

Lights off.

Six-thirty, dusk outside.

One flame filled the room, painting their faces gold.

Ai Qing clapped softly and sang.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...”

To his amazement she never lunged; she sat, eyes on him, until the song ended, the candle blew out, the lights came back, and he said, “Go ahead.”

Only then did she bury her face in frosting and fish.

He laughed, stroked her head, and started on his own slice.

...

Fifteen minutes later, cake finished, he leaned back—and blinked.

The cat across from him was gone.

In her place sat a girl in a white floral sundress, innocent eyes blinking.

She parted her lips, worked her throat, and forced out the sounds:

“Hao... chi...”

“Kai... xin...”

Good... yummy...

Happy...

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