The first time I saw him was in front of the 24-hour laundromat, in the corner where the neon sign was flickering and casting a pale pink glow across the cracked sidewalk.
He lay on a torn camping mat, curled up as though he had at last discovered a comfortable attitude.
A small, orange, half-eared cat 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 life had beaten him up even in his sleep.
His shoes were taped together with bits of duct tape, the stuff frayed at the ends.
His backpack was just a black trash bag, which was tied twice at the top and was slumped next to him as it was too tired to stand.
I did not know his name then.
I was not acquainted with hers.
But I started bringing them food at the cafe where I worked the night shift.
No frills, a muffin, a cup of soup.
There was one time when a customer ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and never picked it up.
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 the answer had been awaiting.
Hazel, he said, and laid his hand on 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, alone.
How he had tried to stay in shelters but Hazel was not allowed in, so he chose the street over comfort.
One night he said, almost to himself, she is my reason.
I am fine as long as she is fine.
And then last week they were gone.
Three nights neither of them appeared.
The corner outside the laundromat was clear, no camping mat, no bag, not even a food wrapper.
I asked questions.
I was told by others that a city crew had cleaned it up.
No one knew where he had vanished.
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 expecting me.
Her fur was drabber, her frame skinnier, but it was she–same lop-eared, same placid gaze.
I crawled on my hands and knees, lest she should run.
She did not.
She walked right up to me and rubbed her shin.
Where is he? I spoke in a low tone, and she could not answer.
I took her up.
So light, so warm.
She laid her head under my chin, as though she were familiar with me.
I never considered.
I just turned and went home.
It was possible to delay work.
I took a laundry basket and placed an old sweater in it and placed her in it.
She almost instantly dropped asleep, huddling herself up as though she had been carrying too much too long.
The next day I phoned everywhere I could think of animal control, local shelters, even hospitals.
I stumbled over the description every time: 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.
But the record was several years old, in a low-income clinic and did not include 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 that she was not interested in.
She was getting accustomed to it, but every time we passed 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 and in came a woman with a wet cardboard sign.
Her hair was in a mad bun and her jacket was heaped on top of two or more sweaters.
I barely knew her till she looked up.
It was June–one of the regulars who gave the people in the street socks and snacks.
You sat with Martin, didn t you? she said.
Martin.
The name rang a bell.
That was his name?
She nodded.
Martin and Hazel, yeah.
Everybody knew those two.
I told her the whole story–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 had him at 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 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 and began to speak, whether he heard or not I knew not.
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.
That day the nurse was bending the rules.
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 told me.
No, I answered.
She waited.
The healing process was slow.
Hazel was with him in the day, I at 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 was hers.
I helped unpack some blankets, two dishes, a second hand TV.
He looked around, and said, This is more than I ever expected to have again.
A month later a woman came into the cafe and asked me.
Her eyes were gentle and her hands were fidgety.
I think you have been helping 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 thought he was dead, she said.
I never forgot him.
The next day they were together.
It was humiliating, and yet you could feel the relief in the room.
Martin no longer just survives.
He is a volunteer in the same shelter that turned him away because of Hazel.
Their pet policy changed because of his story.
Hazel, of course, is still the house queen.
And me?
I still bring muffins now and then.
I continue to sit cross-legged on the floor and Hazel jumps into my lap.
Since, occasionally, the simplest thing, such as donating a leftover grilled cheese, can have a ripple effect into something much greater.
Simply because one cat chose one man.
And that man never stopped taking her back.