The night is quiet. Perhaps it's more accurate to say it's too quiet. The only sound I can hear is my own footsteps echoing strangely loudly down the hotel corridor. Narcissus must have turned off the bedroom light. Moses must have finished tidying up in the kitchen. I wonder how many times today I've picked up a stray cat. A messy kitten was curled up on the front steps. I thought it would run away if I touched it, but that didn't happen. It looked up at me quietly, tail tucked between its legs, as if it had been waiting for me to appear. I offered it the few remaining bread crumbs from my pocket, and it timidly stuck out its tongue and ate them. How brave. This kitten will eventually grow old and die. That's true of everyone I reach out to. I know that. So I try not to get too involved. With Narcissus, with Moses. But still, I end up picking one up again. From the moment I took that washed-up life into my stomach that day, I have probably been burdened with the guilt of continuing to save someone's life.