As soon as I stepped in and turned left, I saw it. A small cat bed sat on the floor near the wall, round and plush, with faded fabric that had been kneaded too many times. Next to it was a litter box, tucked neatly into the corner, clean but clearly used. A small food bowl and a water dish were placed nearby, both stainless steel, reflecting the light from the window.
The cat was curled up in the bed.
She was black from head to tail, her fur thick and soft-looking, stretched lazily over the cushion. She wasn't fat, not really, but she had a noticeable little belly that rose and fell as she slept. The kind of cat that looked like she enjoyed comfort a bit too much.
She stirred as we approached, lifting her head slowly. She yawned wide, showing small teeth, then blinked at us. That was when I noticed it. One of her eyes looked cloudy, pale compared to the other.
"Oh," I said quietly. "She can't see out of that one, can she?"
