CLAIRE DAVON

Excerpt

Meow.

The plaintive wail startled me. I glanced around my one-bedroom apartment. My TV was off, and the radio was playing classical at a volume acceptable for this time before sunrise. Nothing stirred in the building except me.

Meow.

I couldn’t pinpoint where the sound was coming from. I lived alone, so no roommate had smuggled a cat inside. Unless I missed a cat in my grocery shopping yesterday, none had come home with me.

Maybe it was someone else’s TV, but I didn’t often hear my neighbors before dawn. I took a sip of coffee, trying to wake up so I could begin my day.

The peaceful hours before Portland came awake were my favorite time of day. This was the first time I’d been on my own in the entirety of my twenty-five years, and I was glorying in that fact. Nobody could tell me when to do things—except I had to be considerate of my fellow apartment dwellers.

I would start baking when it was light. Nothing could take the place of a still-warm cookie fresh from the oven melting over my tongue. Just the thought of it made my mouth water. Soon, I promised the ingredients waiting to be assembled.

Meow.