Free Half the Day Is Night by Maureen F. McHugh

hour later when they finally got their smart cards back. A different officer dropped them each in readers, “Ms. Ling,” he said, and handed her hers.
    â€œMr. Dai.”
    To the African woman he said, “Ms. Clark?” Odd name, David thought, maybe they are married? But the man’s name was James.
    *   *   *
    They walked back to the parking, to the shining little black car. He was edgy. Paranoia, he thought. The sound of the safety, the age of the boy, the African woman.
    â€œClark,” he said. “Is it a common name, in Haiti?”
    Mayla was not paying attention and he had to repeat the question. “Not that I know of,” she said.
    So the woman was not Haitian, he thought. Maybe she was from a different island. Maybe she was not African, he had trouble with voices here.
    The car park was not very big and it was only half full, most of the vehicles were motor scooters, parked all in a row. The Skate was parked beside a delivery skid, invisible from where they came in. But it was there, snug and polished. David found the keys and heard a cry. Small and animal, nearly soundless.
    A child, an infant, he thought, and looked up at Mayla. She was looking at him, waiting. “Did you hear it?” he asked.
    Before she answered he heard it again. Not a baby, a kitten, from close by. The sound was so helpless it hurt his chest.
    He crouched.
    The kitten was tiny, hunched next to the wheel. David clucked with his tongue and it mewed again.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mayla asked.
    â€œA kitten,” he said. He wished that it would come out, if the driver of the skid didn’t hear it, it would be crushed. “Where are your people?” he asked.
    â€œWhat?” Mayla said. She crouched down. “I don’t see it.”
    â€œThere,” David pointed.
    â€œAh,” Mayla said. “Pobrecito.”
    Yes, poor thing, stuck down here. Caribe seemed an unnatural place for a kitten, never able to sit in the window in the sun.
    It took a few tentative steps, its tail a bottle brush. Out in the light it was gray with dirty white paws and belly. It was skinny and filthy. Little refugee. Its eyes had little tiny sores, flea bites? Suddenly it sat, scratched its ear vigorously and shook its head. Ear mites, he thought.
    â€œWhere does he come from?” Mayla asked.
    â€œNowhere,” David said. She stood. The kitten scuttled sideways and went back under the skid.
    â€œIs there someplace we can take him?” David said. “You know, people who take care of animals with no people? A société for animals?”
    Mayla didn’t know of such a place.
    David clucked again and the kitten mewed. It came a few steps and mewed again, tiny teeth and an astonishing pink mouth. He clucked and wiggled his fingers.
    Stiffly the kitten approached him. He coaxed closer, moving his fingers just out of reach, and the kitten stretched to sniff, stopped nervously, came another step—David snatched it up. It grabbed his jacket.
    â€œYou’ll probably catch something,” Mayla said.
    â€œI already have,” he said and grinned. He felt absurdly pleased with himself. The kitten clung and mewed.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with it,” she said.
    He shrugged. “Maybe I will find someone to take it. A société for animals.”
    She shook her head, “You keep him in your apartment,” she said.
    â€œJust for a few days,” he said.
    â€œRight,” she said.
    But she held the dirty little thing on her lap while he drove home.
    â€œWhat will you call it?” she asked.
    â€œI should not give it a name,” he said, “I want to give it to a place where they will take care of it.” They would probably kill it, he thought, but that would be better than leaving it to die of neglect. He could not keep it, he was leaving.
    â€œYou have to call it something,” Mayla said. She was teasing, she was saying that