Walking home, I go slowly past all the front doors holding my sore belly in one hand and my keys in the other. Around a corner, a boy with a familiar face plays hopscotch alone on the walk.
This is when a cat runs up a cat-sized gangplank someone has built for it from a front garden up to a kitchen window. It makes us both look and smile.
At home, I look it up and see the boy's face and biography laid out. He's one in a thousand for a young mother, one in only forty for women over forty. I know the patterns on his hands and feet.