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"A telegram?" Kate gapes.

"Yeah. He'll be back."

The man looks pleased, like he's been able to deliver some bad news, and pulls his head in and shuts his door.

We go into Kate's apartment, and cats come meowing and rubbing against her legs, and they jump up on the sink and rub and nudge the bag of scraps when she puts it down.

Kate is muttering rapidly to herself and fidgeting with her coat and bag and not really paying much attention to the cats, which is odd.

"Lots of people send telegrams on holidays. It's probably just greetings," I say.

"Not to me, they don't!" Kate snaps, also sounding as if they better hadn't.

I go over to play with the little kittens.

The marmalade-colored one is the strongest of the litter, and he's learned to climb out of the box.

He chases my fingers.

Kate finishes feeding the big cats, and she strides over and scoops him back into the box.

"You stay in there. You'll get stepped on."

She drops Susan back in with her babies to take care of them.

The doorbell rings, and Kate yanks open the door, practically bowling over an ancient little messenger leaning sleepily against the side of the door.

"Take it easy, lady, take it easy. Just sign here," he says.

She signs, hands him the pencil, and slams the door.

The orange kitten has got out again, and Kate does come close to stepping on him as she walks across the room tearing open the telegram.

He doesn't know enough to dodge feet yet.

I scoop him back in this time.

Kate reads the telegram and sits down.

She looks quite calm now.

She says, "Well, he died."

"Huh? Who?"

"My brother. He's the only person in the world I know who would send me a telegram. So he's dead now."

She repeats it, and I can't figure whether to say I'm sorry or what.

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