Chapter 1

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DEDICATION For every child who stops to listen — and every kitten who is found.

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Nadia Begum was walking home from school on a Tuesday when she heard a tiny sound coming from behind the recycling bins on Maple Street.

It was a mew. Not a big cat mew — a little one. A baby one. The kind of sound that is so small you might miss it if you were walking fast or listening to music or thinking about something else.

But Nadia wasn't walking fast. She wasn't listening to music. And she wasn't thinking about anything except how the afternoon light made the sidewalk glow like honey. So she heard it.

She stopped. She listened.

Mew.

Nadia crouched down and peered behind the recycling bins. There, curled up in a cardboard box that had once held oranges, was the smallest kitten she had ever seen.

It was gray — soft, dusty gray, like a rain cloud — with white paws and green eyes that were much too big for its face. It was shivering, even though the afternoon was warm.

"Oh," Nadia breathed. "Oh, hello."

The kitten looked at her. It mewed again. And then, as if it had been waiting specifically for Nadia Begum to walk down Maple Street on this particular Tuesday, it climbed out of the box and walked directly into her hands.

Nadia held the kitten against her chest and felt its tiny heart beating fast, like a hummingbird's wings. The kitten was so light it barely weighed anything at all.

"Where's your mama?" Nadia asked.

The kitten did not answer, because it was a kitten.

Nadia looked around. No mother cat. No other kittens. No sign that anyone had left the orange box on purpose. Just a tiny gray kitten, alone behind the recycling bins.

One — the kitten was lost. Two — the kitten was hungry, because when she held it close, it tried to chew on her jacket zipper. Three — she couldn't just leave it here.

She put the kitten inside her jacket, zipped it halfway up so the kitten's head poked out, and walked home.

Her mother, Amina, was in the kitchen making rice when Nadia came through the door with a kitten sticking out of her jacket.

"Nadia. What is that?"

"It's a kitten, Mama. I found it behind the recycling bins on Maple Street. It was all alone."

Amina looked at the kitten. The kitten looked at Amina. It mewed.

"It's very small," Amina said.

"It's very lost," Nadia said.

Amina sighed the sigh of a mother who knows exactly what is about to happen. "We'll take care of it tonight. But tomorrow, we look for its owner. Someone might be missing this little one."

Nadia nodded seriously. "I promise, Mama. We'll find who it belongs to."

That night, the kitten slept on Nadia's pillow. It purred so loudly that Nadia could feel the vibrations through the pillowcase, like a tiny motor. She lay in the dark, listening to the purring, and she whispered, "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

The kitten purred louder, which Nadia decided meant thank you.

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The next morning, Nadia made a plan.

"We need to find the kitten's owner," she told her mother. "So we need to tell everyone."

They made twelve posters and set out to hang them up.

Their first stop was Mr. Chen's grocery store. Mr. Chen was a kind man with glasses and a very organized store where everything was in perfect rows.

"Mr. Chen, have you heard about anyone losing a kitten?" Nadia asked.

Mr. Chen looked at the poster. "A gray kitten? No, I haven't. But I'll put this in my window." He taped the poster right next to the door where everyone would see it. "You're a good girl to look for the owner, Nadia."

Their next stop was the community center, where Mrs. Okonkwo was setting up for the children's art class. Mrs. Okonkwo knew everyone in the neighborhood.

"A lost kitten!" Mrs. Okonkwo said. "Poor little thing. I haven't heard anything, but let me ask around. I see fifty people a day in this building."

She took three posters — one for the bulletin board, one for the front desk, and one for the senior center upstairs.

Nadia and Amina walked through the neighborhood, hanging posters on lamp posts and bulletin boards and in the windows of shops. At each stop, Nadia told the story of finding the kitten, and at each stop, people were kind.

The baker, Mr. Papadopoulos, gave Nadia a cookie and said he'd ask his customers. The librarian, Ms. Jackson, said she'd post it on the library's website. Old Mr. Farhadi, who sat on his porch every afternoon watching the street, said he'd keep his eyes open.

"This is a lot of people," Nadia said as they walked home.

"That's what a community is," Amina said. "A lot of people helping each other."

The kitten was waiting at the front door when they got back. It had somehow escaped from the bathroom where they'd left it and was sitting on the welcome mat looking extremely pleased with itself.

"You're a troublemaker," Nadia said.

The kitten purred.

That afternoon, Mrs. Okonkwo called. "Nadia! I think I found something. A woman named Greta Johansson — she lives on Pine Street — she told the art class that her cat had a litter of kittens six weeks ago, and one of them went missing last week. A gray one."

"That's wonderful," Amina said, seeing Nadia's face. "Let's go visit Mrs. Johansson tomorrow."

Nadia picked up the kitten and held it close. "We might find your family," she whispered.

The kitten chewed on her braid. Nadia laughed, but her eyes were a little bit wet.

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Mrs. Johansson lived in a small yellow house on Pine Street with a garden full of wildflowers and a porch full of cats.

Well, not full. There were three cats. A big orange tabby sleeping in a sunbeam. A black-and-white cat watching birds from the railing. And a gray mother cat — the exact same shade of gray as the kitten — sitting on the steps with her ears up, as if she were waiting.

When Nadia carried the kitten up the front walk, the mother cat stood up. She meowed — not a little mew like the kitten's, but a big, full meow, the sound a mother makes when something lost has been found.

The kitten in Nadia's arms squirmed and mewed back.

Nadia set the kitten down on the porch. The mother cat walked over, sniffed the kitten all over, and then began licking its head with the determined thoroughness of a parent who has been very, very worried.

Mrs. Johansson opened the door. She was an older woman with white hair and bright blue eyes and paint on her hands. "Oh!" she said. "Oh, you found little Mist!"

"Mist?" Nadia said.

"That's what I call her. Because she's the color of morning mist." Mrs. Johansson knelt down and stroked the kitten. "She squeezed through a gap in the fence last week. I've been looking everywhere."

"Nadia found her behind the recycling bins on Maple Street," Amina said. "She took very good care of her."

"I can see that," Mrs. Johansson said. She looked at Nadia with warm eyes. "Thank you. Truly. I was so worried."

Nadia watched Mist nuzzle against her mother, and she felt the two feelings again — happiness that Mist was home, and sadness that Mist was no longer hers. The happiness was bigger. But the sadness was real.

Mrs. Johansson saw it on her face. Old people are good at seeing feelings that young people try to hide.

"Would you like to visit Mist?" she asked. "Any time you want. She seems to know you."

As if to prove the point, Mist detached herself from her mother and walked back to Nadia, rubbing against her ankles.

"She likes you," Mrs. Johansson said. "Animals know good hearts."

Nadia knelt down and scratched behind Mist's ears, right in the spot that made her purr.

"I'll visit every week," Nadia said. "If that's okay."

"It would be wonderful. I could use the company, and Mist could use a friend."

Walking home, Nadia was quiet. Amina let her be quiet for a while, then said, "You did a good thing, Nadia."

"I know. It's just — I miss her already."

"That's because you loved her. And loving something means caring about what's best for it, even when what's best for it isn't the easiest thing for you."

Nadia thought about this. It was a big idea for a Tuesday afternoon.

"Mama? Is that what service is? Doing what's best for someone else even when it's hard?"

Amina smiled. "I think that's exactly what service is."

"Then I'm going to keep doing it. Not just with kittens. With everything."

That Saturday, Nadia walked to Pine Street. Mrs. Johansson had tea and biscuits on the porch. Mist was on the steps, and when she saw Nadia, she ran down the walk and climbed right into her lap.

She scratched Mist behind the ears. Mist purred like a tiny motor.

"Good girl," Nadia whispered. And she meant both of them.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Crimson Ark Publishing creates stories about small acts of kindness that ripple outward through a community.