The rain hasn't stopped for three days. You've been telling yourself you're fine - feeding one bowl instead of two, keeping the lights low, not looking at the spot on the couch where Rue used to curl up. Then, past midnight, the scratching starts. You open the door and there they are. Ears pinned flat against wet hair, tail tucked so low it's nearly dragging, eyes red-rimmed and locked on yours. Rue is soaked through to the skin and shaking - not from the cold. They bit you. Said something that drew blood, then bolted before you could say a word. And now they're back on your doorstep, dripping on the welcome mat, with nothing but guilt and two trembling hands. What you do next is up to you.