Homeless Read Free

We have to find Socrates, too.”
    Suddenly, a loud horn sounds, startling us and sending the rest of the cats dashing into the tall weeds. The train to Philadelphia roars down the tracks toward us.
    It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think. Brenna is trying to say something, but I can’t hear her. She stands there moving her mouth and gesturing with her hands while the train rushes by, sending dry leaves and dust swirling through the air.
    “What?” I shout.
    The last train car whooshes by, and it’s quiet again.
    “Someone is coming,” Brenna repeats, pointing.
    On the other side of the tracks is a block of small houses, each with a tiny yard surrounded by a low fence. A boy wearing a green backpack cautiously walks across one of the yards toward us. He’s followed by a little girl carefully carrying a plastic bowl that has water sloshing over the side. The boy looks like a third-grader. The girl is younger, first grade maybe, or kindergarten.
    They unlatch the fence gate, walk through the opening, and latch it behind them. The boy pauses and carefully checks the track in both directions, then nods to the girl. They cross.
    As they step into the clearing, the cats reappear like magic, pouring out of the weeds, the trees, and the boxcar to greet them, meowing loudly. Some even walk up boldly to the newcomers and rub against their ankles. These kids are regulars.
    “Hi,” I say as I walk toward them. “Looks like your friends are happy to see you.”
    The little girl’s eyes grow wide. The boy glares at me. I must have startled them.
    “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demands.

Chapter Three
    W e’re looking for a lost cat named Socrates,” I say. “He’s big, kind of an orange color, and he has a little cut on his face and a big one on his leg. He was in a fight. Last time we saw him, he was chasing a black female with white paws and a big belly—a tuxedo cat. We really need to find him. He’s hurt.”
    I stop as my stomach tightens. I’m afraid for Socrates. What if we can’t find him?
    “He’s from the vet clinic,” David explains. “You know—Dr. Mac’s Place? We all work there.”
    “You aren’t going to take the cats away?” the boy asks, his voice a little calmer now.
    “No,” Brenna says. “We just want to find Socrates and go home.”
    The boy walks over to the boxcar, keeping his eyes on us. He reaches in the open doorway and pulls two chipped ceramic bowls to the edge. Still watching us, he takes a small bag of cat food out of his backpack and empties it into the bowls. At the sound of food hitting the bowls, the cats run and leap into the boxcar to eat their meal.
    The boy strokes the gray cat with the crooked tail. It looks like he is trying to make up his mind about something. He starts to speak, then stops. The little girl sets the water bowl on the ground and pets the cats that collect around it for a drink.
    “The cats really like you,” I say.
    He nods.
    “My name’s Sunita,” I say. “If you like cats, then you understand why we’re worried. Socrates needs the veterinarian to look at his wounds. Can you help us find him?”
    The boy hesitates for a moment. Then he looks me in the eye.
    “All right. I’ll look for him. But if he’s back there”—he gestures toward the thick bushes that surround the clearing—“you’ll never find him, trust me. My name’s Jamie. Jamie Frazier.” He pauses to slap a flea on his arm. “Do you know how to take care of a cat that’s hurt?”
    “Yes,” I say. “A little. Do you have a hurt cat?”
    Jamie looks at the girl, as if he’s asking her permission for something. She nods her head slowly.
    “Follow me,” he says. “I got to show you something.”
    He leads us to an injured cat lying on a doll’s blanket behind one of the rusted barrels. The cat’s hind leg is swollen, and there’s blood on the fur.
    “I saw him get hit by a car yesterday,” Jamie explains.
    He pauses for a minute, like he’s