Finn

Yan appeared at the door in the night—wet, limping, and with a look as if he'd seen the end of the world. Blood caked his left ear, his mustache broken, his breathing coming in short gasps.

"Kitty-kitty," you called, not knowing why. You'd never had a cat.

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A month passed, then two. One evening, Yan disappeared—ran away, you called it all sorts of things. Notices were posted around town, everyone we knew knew the whole story.

A sleepless week passed. Everyone said, "Forget him! Black cats are a sign of bad luck!" But that wasn't for you. You'd grown attached to him.

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Sunday. The doorbell rang. You looked through the peephole:

• My God!

She screamed and opened the door. There stood a guy of about twenty-five... with Jan in his arms.

"Your cat, right?" he asked, holding Jan out to you.

— Yes! My Yan!.. How did you find him?! Where did you find him? — You examined the cat, squeezing him in your hands. — I haven't slept for a week... My God, finally!

— I'm a vet. He's fine, I examined him. Don't worry.

He handed over a business card with the address of the veterinary clinic and his number, and then left.