I first spotted him in front of the 24-hour laundromat, in the corner where the neon sign flickered and threw a faint pink light over the broken sidewalk.
He lay on a shabby camping mat, curled up as though he had at last found a comfortable posture.
There was a small orange cat, half an ear missing, which lay across his chest as though she had claimed him.
Her breathing rose and fell with his, as though they had been practising this all their lives.
You could see that life had beaten him up even when he slept.
His shoes were taped together with strips of duct tape, the stuff frayed at the ends.
His backpack was just a black trash bag, which was tied twice on the top and was slumped beside him as it was too tired to stand.
I did not know his name then.
I knew not hers, either.
But I started bringing them food at the cafe where I worked the night shift.
No frills, a muffin here, a cup of soup there.
There was one time when a customer ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and never came to collect it.
He never asked anything.
Never forgot to thank me.
And he never forgot, never, to make sure that the cat got first.
One night after weeks of passing him by, I sat down on the curb beside him.
The air was cooler now, but the sun of the day still warmed the sidewalk.
The cat raised her head and looked at me.
What is her name? I asked.
He looked at her as though he had been waiting to know the answer.
Hazel, he said, and fingered the patch behind her mangled ear.
She chose me.
That is all that matters.
Then he started to tell me snatches of his story.
How his brother had stopped calling back.
How his mom had died three winters ago, in a little apartment, all by herself.
How he had tried to live in shelters, but Hazel was not allowed in, so he would rather be on the street than comfortable.
One night he said, almost to himself, she is my reason.
I am fine as long as she is fine.
And then they were gone last week.
Three nights neither of them appeared.
The corner outside the laundromat was clear, no camping mat, no bag, not even a stray food wrapper.
I asked questions.
I was told by others that a city crew had cleaned up the place.
No one knew where he had gone.
Until this morning.
I was going to work, my head down against the wind, when something at the bus stop made me stop.
Hazel.
She sat, and looked at me, as though she had been waiting.
Her fur was less bright, her frame less plump, yet it was she–same lop-eared, same placid eyes.
I crawled on my hands and knees, lest she should run.
She did not.
She approached me straight up and rubbed against my shin.
Where is he? I spoke in a low voice, and she could not reply.
I took her up.
She was warm, so light.
She laid her head under my chin, as though she were acquainted with me.
I never considered.
I just turned and went home.
It was possible to delay work.
I took an old sweater and placed it in a laundry basket and placed her in it.
She dropped off to sleep almost at once, crouching up like one who had been carrying too much too long.
The next day I phoned everywhere I could think of animal control, local shelters, even hospitals.
Whenever I stumbled over the description: He is skinny, late forties maybe, shabby, and has an orange cat named Hazel…”
Nothing.
I took Hazel to the vet.
She was microchipped and I had a hope.
The record was however years old, in a low-income clinic and did not give any contact information.
She is healthy, said the vet.
Not bad, a little underweight, however.
I brought her home and bought the essentials litter box, food, some toys she was not interested in.
She was accustomed to it, but every time we went by the laundromat she would stop and look in the direction of the empty corner.
Two weeks after.
And so one rainy Tuesday I was at the counter in the cafe when the door opened and in came a woman with a wet cardboard sign.
Her hair was in a mad bun and her jacket was heaped over two or more sweaters.
I scarcely knew her till she looked up.
It was June–one of the regulars who passed out socks and snacks to the folks in the street.
You sat with Martin, didn you? she said.
Martin.
The name rang in my ears.
That was his name?
She nodded.
Martin and Hazel, yeah.
Everyone knew those two.
I told her everything–how he had vanished, how Hazel had found me, how I had been trying to find him.
She frowned.
I heard he was knocked down by the railroad.
Somebody said they took him to County General.
I did not know whether it was he, but… the cat with half an ear?
That is Hazel.
I called the hospital immediately, this time asking to speak to Martin.
They had him.
He was in a medically induced coma and had pneumonia that was severe nearly two weeks.
No ID.
No contacts.
I left work early and went there.
It knocked me out when I saw him in that bed, thinner, paler, hooked up to machines.
I sat down and began to speak, whether he heard or not I did not know.
I told him Hazel was safe.
That she had been waiting.
Three days later his eyes opened.
Hazel? he croaked.
I was crying and laughing at the same time.
She’s fine.
She is here with me.
The nurse was bending the rules on that day.
When I took Hazel into the room she jumped on his bed and curled up beside him as though she had never been away.
She found you, he said.
No, I answered.
She waited.
The healing process was slow.
Hazel was with him by day, I by night.
The hospital eventually sent him to a charity that had a studio in a converted motel, small, but clean, and pets were welcome.
The day he moved in Hazel trotted through the door as though it were hers.
I helped unpack some blankets, two dishes, a second hand TV.
He glanced about and said, This is more than I ever thought I would have again.
A month later a woman came to the cafe and asked me.
Her eyes were sweet and her hands were fidgety.
I believe you have been assisting my uncle, she said.
Martin?
She told me she had not seen him in years.
Family was a mess.
She had seen a picture of Hazel in his new apartment, on the Internet.
The story was going around.
I believed he was dead, she replied.
I never forgot him.
The next day they were united.
It was humiliating, but you could feel the relief in the room.
Martin is no longer just surviving.
He is a volunteer at the same shelter that rejected him because of Hazel.
Their pet policy changed because of his story.
Hazel, of course, is still the queen of the house.
And me?
I still bring muffins every now and then.
I am still sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Hazel gets into my lap.
Since, occasionally, even the tiniest action, such as donating a leftover grilled cheese, can create a ripple effect into something much greater.
Simply because one cat chose one man.
And that man never stopped taking her back.
