It comes for her in her dreams; this is what makes it feel like a curse. She turns in her sleep, haunted by eyes like jade daggers. It asks her for help, but she has nothing to offer. Its gaze sharpens with annoyance and anger, but she feels disappointment the most. She reaches out for its warmth, feels a cold shoulder. A hiss at her, from behind her, above her, around her, a shrill symphony like—

She wakes up shivering. She checks her arms for bed bug bites out of habit but finds only gooseflesh. The nightmare replays itself behind her eyes. She closes a fist tight enough for her fingernails to dent the skin, and takes ten deep breaths. Even after she calms down, she's shivering. The attic is poorly insulated, and she doesn't want to return to bed. But there are still too many hours until sunrise.

She flips a light switch, walks back to her bed, crouches to pull out the basket that acts as her dresser. The light flickers on just in time for her to see which pieces of clothing are which. She puts on her warm pants and then grabs the sweater hung from the wooden beam that crosses closest to the attic's tiny window. The night looks still. Peaceful.

She can swear she sees sharp green eyes staring up at her from the sidewalk below. After a blink, they're already gone. Her heart drops, heavy with want. She has to see it tonight.

Her thin body flies down the attic stairs, careful not to make a sound. The tobacco smoke always makes her nose twitch, but she holds her tongue. Past her mother's bedroom, she makes it to the back door of the house and pops out the screen on the window next to it. The door is known to squeak. Only she knows that the window doesn't make a peep.

She pauses while perched on the windowsill. Remembers her dream, hears the hisses all over again. She can't go to it empty-handed. She knows of something she can offer it, but she doesn't know what will happen to her if she does.

Her offering is heavy in her right pocket as she walks the sidewalk in front of her house. She stops at the spot below the attic window, right where she saw the eyes before. Turns around and scans the street, watching for any movement on the asphalt. It's dark, but she's done this before. She's found it before.

It takes time, but the black blur is unmistakable once she sees it. Her bare feet scrape the sidewalk as she runs after it. It drags her across the street, under three streetlights. She goes fast enough that most things become a blur, she can't distinguish black from bright—and she falls.

Dirt covers the sleeve of her sweater. A twig catches in her hair. Some of the skin scrapes off the palm of her left hand. She winces silently, pushing herself up and sitting on the curb. She feels like an idiot, and cold. She has no idea where the green eyes went, nor does she know if she should even keep chasing it. She picks the twig out of her hair, tosses it.

A quiet hiss in the dark. She freezes, glances over. She can barely see the twig anymore. There's something in front of it, a small black thing that looks stitched into the night. When it turns toward her, the pupils of its green eyes go wide.

It nudges the twig, then meows at her.

"Ah," she says. "I'm sorry."

She reaches for the twig with her left hand but is stopped by the whip of a thin black tail. The green eyes stare at her more intently, and she's scared that her nightmare will come true. It'll hiss at her and leave. It'll hate her like everything else. She just wants—

It meows at her. Not a hiss.

Her heart calms and she holds her hand out slowly. The cat looks at it, then back at her. Its eyes grow sharper with expectation. It doesn't trust her. She understands that; she's asking for its attention but offering nothing in return. She pulls an offering out of her pocket. It is dented from the fall, but the cat's ears perk up.

"I know I haven't had anything before," she whispers, pulling back the can lid. "But maybe this can make us friends?"

The cat walks right up to her, nose-first. It meows softly, sounding impatient.

"Hopefully that means yes," she says. She puts her finger into the can and then holds it out like an olive branch. The cat accepts without hesitation. "It's tuna. Maybe a bit old, sorry." The cat does not seem to care. It quickly licks her finger clean and then meows for more.

She's happy to oblige. "Ma eats it a lot. It's cheap, I guess. She buys a bunch, counts every can. She'll probably notice that one's gone missing." The cat finishes another fingertip-full. She offers it another and considers that it might not be listening to her at all. But it isn't running away, so it feels closer than anything she usually gets.

After all five fingers, she puts the can down. The cat licks its lips and stares up at her. She worries that it expects more, and she doesn't want to disappoint it, but it only mews and shoves its head into her leg. Then it pounces on her.

Four paws balance on her bruised knees. Jade eyes lock with hers, and it is almost as if the gaze contains a contract.

"I'll sneak you more tuna, okay." She tries not to flinch away. Its nose is nearly touching hers. "But in exchange, I have a request."

The cat meows.

"Come back," she says, barely a whisper. "I can't let you in, Ma would kill me. But... don't go anywhere, okay?"

As if completing a ritual, the cat brushes its nose in a line across her cheek. Her heart flutters as it steps in a circle over her legs and curls up in her lap. She immediately feels indebted to the cat, like she would give her life for it. The little thing is as manipulative as some magic artifact.

"And to you I'm just a vessel, huh," she mutters. But she can't hide the smile on her face.