Chapter 3

It was through Berry that I began to piece together the fragments of Parker's life.

His mother had been hospitalized for years; his father abandoned them long ago.

He scraped by on scholarships and a string of part-time jobs just to cover medical bills.

At school, aside from a few teachers, no one treated him kindly.

"Be careful, little one," Berry warned me before flying off one afternoon.

"Getting close to that kid is bad luck. Last week, a white cat that followed him around too much turned up drowned in the fountain. Not an accident."

My fur bristled.

The novel had mentioned how Parker's pets always died under "mysterious circumstances," but it never explained why.

Now I was starting to understand. This was part of the bullying.

The next day, I decided to try again.

I spotted Parker walking along a quiet path behind the library, arms full of textbooks, headed back to his dorm.

I followed him at a safe distance, careful not to be seen.

He stopped abruptly and said without turning around, "Keep following me and I'll toss you in the pond."

I froze. His hearing is so sharp.

"I said, stop following me." He turned to face me, eyes glacial. "I don't need a pet, and I don't need a friend either."

Summoning all my courage, I padded forward a few steps and gently brushed my head against his pant leg.

That was cat's way of saying, "I mean no harm."

His expression softened for a split second—but only for a second.

"It's pointless." He took a step back. "I don't trust anything that's still breathing."

And with that strange line, he walked away.

I watched him go, my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't name.

What had this boy been through to be so terrified of kindness—even from a cat?

For the next two weeks, I kept a careful balance: close enough to observe, far enough not to push.

Parker's routine was heartbreakingly precise.

In the morning, he fed strays behind the boiler room. Then he went to classes. At noon, he worked in the cafeteria, usually eating nothing but plain pasta. Then he went to have afternoon classes. After school, he visited to the hospital. Evening shift—convenience store night clerk. Late night—studying in the dorm till dawn.

He rarely spoke unless he had to, cloaked in silence like armor.

But when he was with animals, he'd speak softly and sometimes even smile. Not a full smile—just the faintest flicker of warmth.

I tried everything to get closer to him: rolling on the path where he walked, leaving a dead mouse on his dorm steps, and even hopping onto the convenience store counter once.

Every time, he shoved me away without expression, until that rainy night.

The downpour was relentless. I curled beneath the library's awning, soaked and shivering.

Parker returned from his shift at 1 a.m., drenched from head to toe. He glanced my way but didn't stop.

Ten minutes later, the dorm door opened again.

He stepped out holding a broken umbrella and a cardboard box.

He set the box on the library steps and turned to leave.

Inside were a dry towel and half a hot dog.

As I watched him walk away, the rain blurred my vision.

That was the moment I knew. Beneath the icy armor, his heart was still intact.

And it was my mission to make sure the world didn't take that last piece from him.

Parker's box became my new home.

I lined it with scraps from the boiler room and waited each day to see if he'd glance my way when passing the library.

He never smiled. But the food never stopped, sometimes half a hot dog, sometimes a crust of bread. Once, even a small bag of dried fish.

The autumn rains kept coming, and my fur was always damp.

One evening, I saw Parker heading for the school gates, looking paler than usual.

Curious, I followed.

But he didn't head to the convenience store. He went straight to the city hospital.

I slipped through the revolving doors behind him and followed down the long, sterile corridors to the third floor. He stopped outside a patient room.

Through the small glass window, I saw him approach the bed.

Lying there was a woman so frail that I could see her scalp through thinning hair, her skin waxy and yellow.

Parker pulled a lunchbox from his backpack and gently helped her sit up.

"Mom, I've got good news," he said, his voice so gentle I barely recognized it. "The doctor says your bloodwork's a little better than last week."

She gave a weak smile and reached up to touch his face. "Parker... you've lost weight again."

"I'm fine," he replied, eyes lowered as he stirred a bowl of oatmeal. "I got a scholarship. We've got enough."

But I knew that wasn't true. His scholarship had long gone to pay for her meds. Now he was surviving on three jobs.

She barely managed a few spoonfuls before shaking her head.

Parker didn't push. He wiped her mouth and tucked the blanket around her shoulders.

Then he pulled a basin from under the bed, filled it with warm water, and began washing her.

I watched, heart aching.

This boy, who was described in the novel as cold and ruthless, was handling his mother's fragile body like she was made of porcelain.

When he reached her arm, where old injection marks left her skin mottled with bruises, his hands trembled.

"Don't worry about the money," she whispered. "This illness... can't be cured. Don't waste..."

"It can be cured!" Parker suddenly raised his voice, then caught himself. "It will be. I found a new tutoring gig—eighty bucks an hour."

She sighed and closed her eyes.

Parker resumed bathing her, his touch gentler than ever.