The Box by the Road
Sunlight poured through the car window in warm golden ribbons, falling across Mist's fur and waking her with a gentle tickle on her nose. She blinked her amber eyes slowly, the way cats do when the world feels soft and unthreatening, and stretched her small brown-striped body along the length of the blanket beneath her. It was her favorite blanket — the blue one with little white stars, worn thin in places from years of kneading paws and sleepy afternoons. It smelled like home. It smelled like Mia.
She yawned, showing her pink tongue and tiny white teeth, then curled her tail around herself as the car rumbled along beneath her. The engine hummed low, a sound she had come to love, almost like a giant purring alongside her own. She had always adored car rides. They meant adventure — a trip to the vet sometimes, sure, but more often a drive to Grandma's house, where there were sunbeams on the porch and an old orange cat named Butters who let her chase his tail.
Today felt like one of those good days. The light was warm. The road was smooth. And beside her, nestled against the seat, sat a large cardboard box, its flaps slightly open, filled with soft towels and a few of her toys —…
