The next morning, I secured the balcony.

Well.

I attempted to secure the balcony.

Important distinction.

At ten past nine, after four and a half hours of approximate sleep and two coffees consumed far too quickly, I found myself standing in front of the glass door with my arms crossed, examining the scene of the crime.

The balcony hadn’t changed.

Obviously.

Twenty square feet of cold tile. A folding chair. A plant surviving out of pure spite. The railing. The divider between my apartment and the one next door.

Low.

Far too low.

Until the night before, it had seemed perfectly normal. A clear boundary between two living spaces. A simple line any reasonable living creature could understand.

Eugène had interpreted it as an invitation.

I examined the ledge, the gaps between the bars, the angle where it met the wall.

A medium-sized cat could have made it across with a little flexibility.

Eugène was not a medium-sized cat.

Eugène was a substantial, self-assured creature built like a diplomatic cushion.

And yet.

He had made it across.

I turned toward him.

He was sitting in a patch of sunlight, licking one paw with the peaceful concentration of someone who had crossed an international border without being detained.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?”

He barely looked up.

No remorse.

I picked up a sketchbook and wrote:

“Balcony. Risk of repeat offense.”

I stopped.

I had actually written that.

About a cat.

I added anyway:

“Jumping capacity exceeds projections.”

It was important to remain scientific.

I went outside with a tape measure, two cardboard boxes, a chair, and a crate full of old sketchbooks. A level of determination that probably would have been better spent on my tax return.

I measured the divider, the height of the railing, and the width of the ledge.

Then I drew a diagram.

A real one.

With arrows.

Eugène’s probable route.
Launch zone.
Landing point.
Angle of infiltration.

It looked like a prisoner’s escape plan in a movie taking itself far too seriously.

I added a question mark beside the plant.

Botanical accomplice.

I brought it inside immediately.

Then I tested the chair.

Bad idea.

It created a step.

The boxes formed a staircase.

The crate attracted Eugène, who walked out onto the balcony with calculated slowness.

“No.”

He stopped.

Looked at the crate.

Then the divider.

Calculation.
Intent.
Disaster in development.

“You are not doing that again.”

I placed my foot in front of him.

He examined the obstacle with obvious intellectual disappointment.

Then sat down.

Perfectly upright.

Perfectly calm.

The kind of calm that was never reassuring in a cat.

Human barrier effective in the short term.

Professionally unsustainable.

I couldn’t spend my life standing on the balcony as a barricade while a client asked whether an eggplant could look more inclusive.

I brought the crate inside.

Then the chair.

Then the boxes.

The balcony returned to its original state, except now I had written proof of its inadequacy.

Eugène remained outside, sitting in front of the divider.

He was staring at the neighboring balcony.

Not the railing.

Not the street.

The neighboring balcony.

“Are you looking for her?”

One ear turned toward me.

“No. Bad question.”

I picked him up beneath the stomach and carried him inside. He allowed it with the offensively limp surrender of an animal capable of turning every forced relocation into a moral accusation.

I locked the glass door.

Eugène placed one paw against it.

On the other side, the neighboring balcony was empty.

Curtains drawn.

No voices.
No father.
No delighted allergic girl.

I stood there looking for a few seconds.

Just long enough to confirm that the previous night had really happened.

Eugène had actually disappeared.

Liora had actually said he could come back whenever he wanted.

Her father had actually clarified that he could not.

And I had actually mentioned the thin walls.

I closed my eyes.

Why had I said that?

I spent the morning working in short bursts.

Client revision.
Save.
Look at Eugène.
Move a stool.
Revision.
Look at the balcony.
Email.
Mild panic.
Save again.

The client wanted the illustrated eggplant to look “more welcoming, without becoming childish.”

I stared at it for a long time.

It already had arms.

I didn’t know what more humanity could possibly demand.

I changed its eyebrows.

Then changed them back.

Work accomplished.

The rabbit observed the activity cautiously. He had received his hay, his water, and a promise that no major architectural changes would affect his territory.

He didn’t believe me.

At noon, I decided to check the mail.

A simple decision.

Ordinary.

Socially risk-free.

Normally.

I picked up my keys and stopped in front of the glass door.

Eugène was asleep on the couch.

Or pretending to be.

One ear remained pointed in my direction.

Simulation.

“I’ll be back in three minutes. If you open a window by yourself, I’m moving.”

No reaction.

I stepped outside.

The hallway smelled as it always did, of warm dust, laundry detergent, and meals cooking behind closed doors.

The landing.

Two doors.

Mine.

Theirs.

I didn’t look.

Well, not directly.

A little.

Liora’s door was closed. Calm. Normal. No chewed socks on display.

I went downstairs and collected a bill, an advertisement for a pizza place, and a letter addressed to the previous tenant, who was apparently continuing to live in my apartment despite having moved out.

I was heading back upstairs when the building’s front door opened below.

Quick footsteps.

Very quick.

I didn’t need to see her.

Steps.
Rhythm.
Slightly excessive impact against the stairs.

Liora.

She appeared around the turn of the staircase with a sports bag over one shoulder, her jacket open, her hair tied back, and a water bottle tucked under one arm. She climbed as though the stairs were a personally insulting obstacle.

She looked up.

Saw me.

Slowed down.

For her, stopping seemed to be a local variation of slowing down.

“Aurèl!”

My name bounced through the stairwell.

She had remembered it.

Normal.

I had told her.

People remembered names every day without requiring a creative brief.

“Hi.”

Brilliant response.

She reached me slightly out of breath, carrying the warmth of outdoors, movement, and cold air with her.

“How’s Eugène?”

No hello.

No “how are you?”

Eugène.

Obviously.

“He’s fine.”

“Did he sleep well?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“I didn’t question him.”

She smiled as though that were exactly the answer she had expected.

“Shame. I’m sure he would’ve had things to say.”

“Probably against the advice of his lawyer.”

“He has a lawyer?”

“Himself.”

“Makes sense.”

She adjusted her bag while searching through one of its pockets. She managed to talk, breathe, look for something, and remain attentive all at once.

Concerning.

I sometimes lost track of a conversation because a notification appeared.

Keys jingled.

A packet of tissues fell to the floor.

I bent down automatically.

So did she.

We nearly hit our foreheads.

A brief pause.

Very brief.

Too close.

I caught the scent of her shampoo, or her laundry detergent, or simply the cold air clinging to her jacket.

I straightened immediately.

She took the tissues from my hand.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence.

One second.

Maybe two.

Then she continued, as though her body rejected extended silences.

“I thought about him this morning,” she said.

“Eugène?”

“Yes. I think it was an important meeting.”

I blinked.

“Important.”

“Yes.”

“With my cat.”

“Yes.”

I looked around the stairwell.

The sad fluorescent light.
The worn tile.
The mailboxes.

Nothing in the setting seemed prepared to support a declaration like that.

“He broke into your apartment.”

“My apartment.”

“Your family’s apartment.”

“It’s my apartment too, technically.”

“Fine. Your apartment.”

She smiled.

I immediately regretted giving in.

“That’s the point,” she continued. “He could’ve gone anywhere. He chose our balcony. Our living room. My sock.”

“The sock may have been his primary objective.”

“You think?”

“I’d rather not underestimate his criminal motives.”

She laughed, then brought one hand to her nose.

I stiffened.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

She sniffed.

“I mean, I’m allergic, so ‘okay’ has a slightly flexible definition.”

Fine.

The medical file.

I straightened, as though my body could become more responsible through posture.

“I’m sorry about last night. I’m going to secure the balcony. I’ve started. Well, I tried. I need to buy something sturdier.”

“What, did you put a chair in front of it?”

I didn’t answer quickly enough.

Her face lit up.

“You put a chair in front of it.”

“Temporarily.”

“And some boxes?”

I looked away.

She burst out laughing, then sneezed.

“Unrelated,” she said, raising one finger. “That was dust.”

“Of course.”

“And maybe a little bit of Eugène lingering in my immune memory.”

“Your immune memory?”

“No idea. It sounds medical, though.”

Perfect.

I could already picture her father opening the door.

His daughter in sports clothes explaining to her neighbor that her immune system had retained an emotional memory of his cat.

Me beside her.

Owner of the cat.

Health hazard.

“Seriously, though,” she said, “I really am allergic. But last night wasn’t as bad as usual.”

“Not as bad doesn’t mean safe.”

“You sound like my father.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s funny.”

She explained that she had sneezed and her eyes had become irritated, but she hadn’t felt any tightness in her chest or had an attack.

“Usually, when I touch a cat, my eyes sting, I start coughing, and my father acts like I’ve licked asbestos.”

I stood perfectly still.

“You probably shouldn’t lick asbestos.”

“Thank you for clarifying.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But with Eugène, it was different. My face didn’t try to leave my skull.”

“Is that a common sensation?”

“With cats, yes.”

“And you still wanted one?”

“Obviously.”

I stared at her.

She stared back as though I were the one who had said something strange.

“You’ve always wanted an animal you’re allergic to.”

“Not an animal. A cat.”

“That you’re allergic to.”

“It’s an inconvenient detail.”

“It’s a respiratory detail.”

She smiled.

“My father says exactly that.”

Excellent.

I was mentally merging with my neighbor’s father after less than twelve hours of knowing them.

A troubling development.

“So,” she continued, “I think Eugène is special.”

“He’s mostly very furry.”

“No. Special.”

“Medically?”

“Destiny-wise.”

I remained silent.

My brain placed the word on an internal table, examined it from several angles, then concluded that no reasonable response was available.

Destiny.

For a cat who had entered through a balcony carrying a stolen sock.

“You don’t believe in destiny?”

“I believe in poorly secured windows.”

She laughed.

“That’s sad.”

“That’s cautious.”

“That’s very you.”

I looked up.

“You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

The answer came quickly.

Too quickly.

She didn’t seem to give it any weight herself. She continued adjusting her water bottle and existing through several movements at once.

I remained stuck on the two words.

Not yet.

As though there were already meant to be a next part.

As though getting to know me wasn’t an abstract possibility, but an activity that had already begun.

A very bad way to interpret what was probably an ordinary sentence.

“I’m heading to practice,” she said, finally pulling her keys out of a pocket. “Otherwise I’m going to be late.”

“Sports?”

Stupid question.

Sports bag.
Sports shoes.
Water bottle.

“Track.”

“Oh.”

“You look surprised.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

About how she seemed too fast even when she was standing still.

About the strangeness of discovering that the sounds from next door had a direction, a track, a structure I had never imagined from my couch.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Diplomatic answer.”

“Survival answer.”

Her smile returned.

“I’ve been doing track for years. Far too much, according to my father. Not enough, according to me.”

From the way she said it, I understood that it wasn’t simply an activity slotted between two classes.

There was structure to it.

Schedules.

Something that perhaps explained why her footsteps sometimes crossed the apartment with such precise urgency.

The sounds next door had somewhere to go.

A track.

A practice.

She stepped down one stair.

“Where do you train?” I asked before approving the question.

She looked far too pleased.

“At the stadium. It’s not far. Well, if you walk quickly. For you, it might be far.”

“Why for me?”

“You look like someone who considers going out to buy bread an expedition.”

“That’s occasionally true. I work from home.”

“The classic excuse.”

“It isn’t an excuse. It’s a tax status.”

She laughed, then sneezed again.

I gestured vaguely toward her face.

“You should avoid thinking too hard about Eugène.”

“Impossible.”

“Concerning.”

“No. Beautiful.”

“Allergic.”

“Selective.”

“I don’t think allergies work that way.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

“I have firsthand experience.”

“Your field of experience is your nose.”

“Exactly.”

I had no answer to that.

She went down one stair, then immediately came back up.

“And your balcony? Are you really going to secure it?”

“Yes.”

“With something other than a chair?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

The word made the question less light.

Maybe she wasn’t asking only because of her father.

Maybe she was asking because of Eugène too.

Or because of herself.

Or I was overanalyzing a conversation with an allergic girl who was late for practice.

Likely option.

“I promise.”

She nodded, satisfied.

“Good. Because my father already has a very firm opinion about you.”

Ah.

There it was.

The trial.

I tightened my grip on the mail, as though the pizza advertisement could serve as legal representation.

“Already?”

She straightened her shoulders and lowered her voice.

“‘The young man seems polite, but we’ll need to make sure he understands the responsibilities involved in communal living.’”

The impression was accurate.

Far too accurate.

I closed my eyes.

Wonderful.

I was officially a subject of domestic concern.

“He said that?”

“Almost.”

“How almost?”

“He mostly said we needed to keep an eye on the cat.”

“You’re interpreting freely.”

“Always.”

She checked her watch.

Her face changed.

The lightness remained, but something tightened. She was already somewhere else. On the street. At the stadium. Inside the next movement.

“Damn. Now I’m actually late.”

She hurried down the stairs, then turned around.

“Well, not late late. Just not early.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Psychologically, yes.”

Then she left.

I remained where I was with my useless mail, watching her disappear one floor at a time. Her bag struck against her hip. Her keys jingled. Her footsteps filled the stairwell as though they had always been there.

On the landing below, she stopped abruptly.

Looked up at me.

“By the way!”

“Yes?”

“What’s your cat’s name again?”

I frowned.

“You already know.”

“I want to hear it officially.”

I didn’t understand.

Obviously.

I answered anyway.

“Eugène.”

She smiled.

A real smile.

Immediate.

As though the name had confirmed a theory.

“Perfect.”

I remained still.

“Far too perfect,” she added.

Then she disappeared outside, almost running.

The building’s front door closed.

The silence returned.

Well.

Not entirely.

The sound of her footsteps remained in my head.

I looked down at my mail.

Bill.
Pizza place.
Previous tenant.

Nothing that explained why my apartment, my cat, my balcony, and now my name all seemed to have slipped into a part of reality I understood less well.

I slowly climbed the rest of the stairs.

On the landing, the two doors faced each other.

Mine.

Hers.

I looked at the invisible divide between the two apartments.

The wall.

The balcony.

The hallway.

All those places that, until the night before, had functioned properly.

They were still the same size.

I was the one who no longer knew exactly where each one ended.

I went inside.

Eugène was waiting behind the door.

Sitting.

Calm.

As though he knew.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He blinked slowly.

I placed the mail on the table and checked the glass door.

Closed.

Locked.

The neighboring balcony was empty.

For now.

I picked up my sketchbook and added beneath the diagram:

“Buy proper barrier. Urgent.”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation:

“Selective allergy?”

I looked at the words.

Absurd.

I didn’t cross them out.

Eugène jumped onto the table and placed one paw beside the sketchbook.

“Don’t take that as scientific validation.”

He sniffed the page.

Then sat on it.

Fine.

Study interrupted by the subject himself.

I looked at the glass door again.

Still closed.

Still locked.

And yet, since the night before, the balcony no longer looked like a possible exit for Eugène.

It looked like a passage.

A much more dangerous distinction.