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"You bake."

"I cook."

"You cook cupcakes."

"Sit down and eat one."

I sit. He slides a plate at me, then picks up three pieces of candy corn and arranges them on top of the cupcake in a small careful triangle.

Then he looks at me. Daring me.

I chuckle but say nothing. I'm saving it.

Yesterday this man turned into something with teeth longer than my fingers. This morning he pulled a shadow off my back door in broad daylight and salted the ground where it died.

Now he's decorating cupcakes. And, it's good. Go figure.

Behind me, something clacks.

I turn around. There's a flap cut into the bottom of the back door. Hinged, sanded smooth, painted the same soft green as the rest of it.

Sid strolls through it like a man arriving at his own club.

My mouth flops open. I look at the flap. I look at the cat. I look at Gage, who has become deeply invested in wiping frosting off a knife.

"That's a cat door."

"It's a door."

"It's cat sized."

"He kept scratching."

I stand up. He says my name in a warning tone that has never once worked on me, and I walk straight past the wood stove, where there's a bed.

Not a folded towel. Not a cardboard box. A round cushioned bed with a sheepskin lining, worn down in the middle in the exact shape of a cat who apparently has slept there a great deal.

And, beside it is a ceramic bowl. Hand painted. A name in careful block letters along the side.

BUG.

I put a hand over my mouth and laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"No. Give me a second." My eyes are watering. "Bug?"

"He's small."

"He's a mystical creature."

"He's eleven pounds."

I open the pantry. Bottom shelf, front and center, where a normal person keeps cereal, there's a bag of food with a picture of a salmon on it that costs more per pound than anything in my freezer.

I turn around slowly.

"I can't believe you stole my cat."