Dear Wigleaf,

I said let's go see the moon, it's super tonight. We opened the front door, startling one of the ferals from the end of the driveway. It took off running into the street, just as a white SUV sped by. We heard a thump—loud—and the car drove on. We got a flashlight, went out to help, only to find empty pavement, silver like hardened lava in the moonlight. The cat was gone; I don't know where. It was Rumpelstiltskin, the big grey-and-white one with the gnarled ear. They feed them, two doors down. Litters of gummy-eyed kittens wrestle in the monkey grass. We scanned the street and spotted three other ferals—the orange tabby, and two out of six calicos—congregating, looking both alarmed and clueless, their colors muted by the moon, their tails bobbed. We searched the neighbor's lawn, only to find a small pile of leaves. Not even a streak of blood on the asphalt. The next morning, lounging in the sun was another feral, a tuxedo. I have never seen this cat. Maybe they are all the same, simply changing furs when needed. Three days have passed, and I still haven't spotted Rumpelstiltskin. All I've seen in the night was that one racoon with a bum leg, a drunken man rolling himself down the street in an office chair, and the stars winking above.

With love from Mississippi,

Keri Miller