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... ets beside me are cold and empty, the pillow unruffled as if no one slept there at all. Cat isn't here.

My damaged hands twitch uselessly as I push myself up, squinting at the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Boston sprawls below, already alive with tiny cars and tinier people going about their normal lives.

"Cat?" I call out, my voice scratchy with sleep. No answer.

This is wrong. Cat always wakes me up in the morning. It's part of our routin ...

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