Chapter 7: Chapter Six - "Re-Devined"

It has to be any minute now, that they role-up on us: The Government Party.

We just buried all of their in-house soldiers outback.

What part of the "common-law treaty" is this?

Thus, we don't wait for the Government to show-up. That's obvious. I'm guessing you had already guessed that by the way Oso moves around so much.

Once we were done, and once Oso made more phone calls—away from us, of course—we took back the blankets we had temporarily placed the dead soldiers in, and we headed back for Black Catz. I don't think any of us felt good on the drive back either.

This time, unlike the way to the burials, I took the car with Congo and Oso.

I had yet to meet the whole Black Catz crew, so I stuck with the ones I knew.

************

In school one time, long ago, I think when I was in sixth grade—before I came to this side of the Wall, obviously—one of my teachers once told the class that he knew the secret to life, and once we figured it out, we'd all be as calm as he was.

And 'till this day, I always wonder why he didn't just tell us the secret to life. Isn't that what being a teacher is all about after all: helping your students?

And since that day, I've tried figuring out what secret—or secrets—he was talking about. And sometimes, I think, I have found that secret. I thought, at least, that I had found it before I came here—to this side of the Wall.

I thought the secret was writing. I thought it was simply expressing your feelings—or learning to express them—that would lead to any chance of true happiness.

But now, being here, living what I have with these Black Catz, I don't know if I think writing is the true secret, or if any other idea I might have had would be remotely close to whatever that teacher was talking about.

And now, the more I think about it, the more I start to believe that that teacher, that day, never told us the "secret" to life because there is no secret to life; because life is simply this; it's simply that; because life is simply pointless, and nothing we do, no matter how much we try—like how the black Catz people try to do what is right and how the soldiers tried to do what they think is right for their government—matters, because we'd all eventually get our thoughts wrong and we'd simply end up back where we didn't want to end up in the first place; thus, nothing mattering at all.

So maybe, I think, that was why the teacher never told us at all. What we did not know could not hurt us, in his mind, which is perhaps true, because taking my time here, with the Black Catz, has deeply hurt me. Oh, what I would do to not have lived or learned any of this; but then again, I would have not known. So would have it been better?

I mean, what is better? Knowing? Or not knowing?

Does pain exist if you can't see it?

Does hurt, hurt if you can't feel it?

Would these Government soldiers have died if they would have never given a damn about the government? Probably not.

Or maybe what I learned was that there is no secret and the only secret is realizing that death is inevitable and embracing it is the closest thing to finding that secret, if there is a secret in life at all.

Or maybe everything, all these ideas and beliefs, are part of my own myopic self-obsessed pyramid?

************************

What is Oso's secret? What is he holding from us? What are these phone calls he goes off to make in secret; what are they about?

Those secrets will hopefully be exposed when we arrive wherever we're destined, and driven to arrive.

Fernando and Pamela head in another truck.

The sign looks no different. No matter how many deaths you've seen--and have probably been a part of because of the hand you've been dealt—it always looks the same. The bright, phosphorescent lights always shining brighter than any other light on the block.

Unlike those signs you usually saw in movies, where one letter or a part of the sign was constantly blinking because of a non-working electric bulb—this sign, the Black Catz sign, was never blinking, always shining, every letter, every part of the cat logo, the pyramid, the yellow, the black, the white—it was all okay, alive as the Catz in real life...and as life wasn't being with me: blunt and to the point, working and doing what it should be doing, and following orders of faith, those orders lined up by the sole driver of whatever is working that main object pulling my cart of faith, or set-out-path-for me (if that's even real).

"I don't get it," I say.

"What don't you get?" asks Oso.

"How is that light always blinking? And how are we always moving around? And what do you guys do here...at Black Catz? What is this? Are you guys some police force? Some gang?"

What am I saying?

But really: do you know?

What are the Black Catz?

But forget that question. Better yet, ask yourself: what is anything; what is, any gang; what is any organization but only the beings that exist and do whatever it is that organization asks of them; what is...anything?

"Good bulbs," replies Congo. "You have to take care of your bulbs, miss Divine."

Here we go again: miss Divine.

Oso pulls up to the bar in the manner he always does: in that leading manner—and we all get out.

Nobody is waiting for us this time. They're all inside.

The bar never stops working.

Noe goes in and takes up as usual.

There was a lady that took his place the times we've left. I wonder if she always takes his place.

Probably.

"Oso--it's all over the group chat?"

"Which one?"

"The WhudUpApp they always us. They're coming this way."

"How many?"

"All of them."

"Including her?" asks Oso, intensely, deeply, with a set of conviction to the question, or some sort of determination-dart thrown with it—of needing to know the answer now; of needing to know the answer to one detail in the question; of needing to know of her...whoever her, was.

"Including her," Oso got back, as he desired.

Yet, instead of a sense of panic, some sort of joy set in between these two comraderies' that I had not seen interject between the two since I arrived.

The boy even reminded me of Moritz. The way his hair fell over his eyes. The long, sparkly streaks.

Was this what Oso wanted?

And who is she that they're talking about? Who is coming?

We go inside and the conversation continues apart from us. And while Noe tries to drag me back to the bar, I keep my ear on the conversation, even if they are walking away from me.

"Ludy!" he cries out, again—Noe does.

But I'm distracted.

Who is Oso talking about? And who is she?

If someone is coming, shouldn't we be more worried?

************************

The shots flow behind me—but not the shots I'm expecting; the ones only I seem to be expecting.

I don't want any though. Not really.

I was never a fan.

We all just had to kill—some did, at least. We all just had to bury. And we're taking shots?

I don't feel right. How can anyone feel right after that? There must be more to this if these people celebrate deaths, especially induced by their hand, with colorful drinks.

There is no black or yellow in anything too. Apart from the logo and sign, and things with the log and sign, there is nothing else.

*********************

I waited for an ant while waiting for Oso last night. While some dozed off, I waited. While others waited to see what we would do with the lifeless bodies, I waited with an ant. I maybe couldn't kill a human, unless at my uncle's store, but I did almost voluntary end an ant last night. I say almost because I didn't do it—as you may have guessed. Why I waited? I waited because I saw another ant walked towards the direction of the ant I first saw. And I wondered: is it walking to the ant? The romantic in me said yes. So, I waited to see. And then, I dozed off; like every other romantic...we/you/me dozed off. Don't. Doze. Off.

*********************

I keep following Oso and the newcomer.

*********************

The ant wasn't walking towards the other. So then, I thought, hey—maybe they're friends and love each other and they're waiting for each other—I built human compassion in a fucking ant—but no, it wasn't walking anywhere or going anywhere....it was all coincidence; ants aren't romantics. But I didn't kill it. The ant felt the compassion I couldn't keep when the patron spooked me.

*********************

"When is she coming?" I happen to hear Oso say. But then the DJ turns it up and the chatter falls back in the background. So I move closer.

Where do these people go when they're not moving back and forth from the bar fighting with the Government police? And how do they live like this?

The smoke begins to move throughout the bar as Oso and his guest do, the other Black Catz members that I don't know.

Purple lights blink back and forth. The mixture of the smoke and lights turns the area pinkish, smoky, disgusting—it turns it into an impalpable place. Yeah, it's "no place like home".

**********************

How many times do you think you've escaped death without knowing? Like just went on your day—went on your day living—and just didn't notice that you were about to die; that you were inches from darkness, I believe?

Most people will never know. In fact, I'm sure nobody will ever know how many times that's happened to them before they die.

But I do know. I know by the sound of all the bullets that have graced me with their noise since I've met the Black Catz, since I've been taken from my uncle's place.

Surely, if I'm going to die, it's going to be under the strict, orderly hand of the Black Catz. That is probably the only thing I am certain of. Therefore, brace yourself for whatever I may jot down from here on out.

Noe can probably detect this insecurity from me. I can sense his side eye even from here.

I'm nowhere near the bar, and if it weren't for the busy crowd, I'd be easy to spot; but that doesn't matter, because Noe sees me through the smoke.

Oso takes his usual seat upstairs, in the VIP area, where I hadn't been without him.

"Miss Divine!" I hear called across the bar.

Nobody hears this because it's me that they're calling, and if they knew me, I'd hope they'd know me by name and not by "miss divine".

Noe has never called me "miss divine". Even when Oso introduced me as that, to the few Black Catz that were around, Noe never picked up on that nickname to use as his own. Instead, he stuck with "girl; or Ludy—you know, what my actual name is.

This time, nevertheless, he wasn't using "girl" or "Ludy"—not that it needs quotes...

....no, instead, Noe used "miss divine".

"Miss Divine! Come on! Get over here!"

"Yeah!" followed Fernando.

Pamela suddenly showed up too...at the worst time. Like what the hell, people? I'm trying to spy on Oso here.

There was no escaping this one though. No Irish Exit in the works, or allowed to be in the works...or even allowed to be allowed.

She's coming! Didn't they hear? Or do they not care? Whoever she is. She is coming!

"Miss. Divine! Don't make me call you again!"

**************************

I don't make Noe call me again; but not because he doesn't want to call me again, but rather, because I don't want him to call me again and then give away my stance, my location—basically give away everything I'm hiding, to Oso; I don't want him to giveaway whatever "stalking skills" I had left—not that I ever actually thought that I had any stalking skills...but who knows...maybe I'm learning.

At his forefront, like last night, Noe has a set of shots and people before him awaiting those shots. I just don't know who will take mine. And I also don't know how many nights I'll be greeted by shots I don't know are there until I know they're there, looking at me...telling me 'drink, drink, drink; forget, forget, forget; bury, bury, bury.

And I did bury.

Before crossing to this side of the Wall, I had never stepped foot in a bar. And now, today, with the Black Catz, I find myself living in one.

Noe accepts that I have no crave for hard alcohol and therefore, proceeds to pass my poison doses to the next Cat awaiting and craving them.

After they down each drop, the Catz that took my poison, Noe turns to me once they leave, once the room is cleared. If I had more friends, I'd probably leave too. But I don't. Oso and Congo—the two Catz I've known the longest—have abandoned me. This annoyance leaves me here, with Noe.

"What's wrong? What do you think you heard?" he asks.

But how does he know I heard anything at all? And how could he question something so precisely without knowing what the precise-lee there is to be precise about, or to be precise in question about.

I don't want to give my curiosity away:

"Nothing," I reply.

"I'll give you another shot...but I won't give you another shot," Noe then serves back, knowing I wasn't saying something, knowing I was holding something back; and telling me that while he's a bartender and serves people poison for a living (and gives his life on the side), he isn't filled with poisons' beliefs.

I laugh and say "nothing, really," really wanting to trust him but knowing nobody is worth trusting anymore.

The skin my grandmother says is soft and delicate, and highly pollargic, is starting to feel as if it is turning into something rather hard and tough, maybe made of stone or rock, or concrete—like the concrete they use around here, on this side of the Wall, because on this side it's cheap and it's durable, and it last, and you can use it for anything—like you could with regular concrete, I guess, but, you know, it's cheap.

On this side, I've noticed, they stick broken, sharp glass edges into these concrete walls, right at the top, right where the holes run from the concrete bricks, to protect themselves from anyone trying to jump "the fence"—the Wall Wall is bigger, that is obvious. But that goes to show you how people don't need no wall or fence separating them from others who are just like them, with nothing else separating them but the language they speak, and the food they eat, and the God's they pray to (those that still pray).

**********************************

Maybe sometimes, the people we believe other people are trying to change us to, are really the people we're trying to change ourselves into; I'm saying that maybe, since being kids, at least for me, I think, all this Black Catz shit has me thinking, is that I've always blamed others for trying to turn me into someone that I'm not, when really it was me that was always trying to turn myself into something I'm not, telling my mother I wanted a haircut just because I saw a girl in a band wear it the same way, or that I want certain types of clothes and certain types of shoes because I saw a certain band—like Lady DaDa—wearing them; maybe I owe them—all the people I "thought" were trying to change me—an apology of some sorts, with some sincerity.

***********************************

"Who are you?" asks Noe.

"What do you mean?"

What does he mean?

***********************************

My grandmother once told me that she liked how my mind worked; she served me that line after I made a suggestion about a way she should handle one of her pointless problems that only she sees any problem in. But I don't know how she meant that statement. I don't know exactly how my mind works that made her say that. But I wish I did.

***********************************

"I'm Ludy," I reply.

***********************************

Dear Reader, I must admit something: I've never been a "cat".

I've never been a cat person.

Here's the thing: I like dogs; but, I believe if I were born an animal, I'd definitely be a cat. There's no doubt about that.

Cats are who I am.

So maybe it's only fitting that I end as a Cat?

***********************************

"I'll give you another shot, miss divine...but I won't give you another shot," Noe repeated.

"What are they talking about," I bathetically say, giving into Noe's mental—and silent, stealthy—begging.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I just don't feel like a cat. I've never been a cat person."

"Who is? You just have to learn to deal with it. Because people deal with you."

"Are you a dog person too?" I ask.

"Sure, divine," replies Noe. "Sure. We're all dogs."

"So what are Oso and he talking about? Who is she?"

The secret, whatever Oso's secret was, was still unbeknownst to me. The only things I had seen and been presented to, were another pair of Noe's colorful shots, which I could not take.

Three other men joined Noe at the bar, beside us, almost, to my surprise, at the moment I mentioned her, whoever her was.

Nobodies voice has, since arriving, sounded familiar.

Noe is a friend—or whatever I can call him in the short period of time that I've known him—but he is a friend to me. But him, or his voice, or his suggestions and quotes--none of him, is familiar to me, because it's not what I grew up with on the other side of the Wall.

Another night, more drinks, a lot of smoke in the air, guns covering every other table—all of this is what's going down; and I've seen plenty of people die, from both sides, but I still see no exit for myself. I don't know what is to come for me here, with the Black Catz.

More men have joined Oso and the stranger I still can't familiarize, or put-a-picture to.

I notice this when the three-musketeer-y-group (for me, at least) of Black Catz came to join Noe and I at the bar.

My shots were getting lonely.

I think Noe got busy with them (the men), because when I walked away from the bar—again—I didn't hear the expected cry: miss Divine!

Not from Noe.

Not from Oso.

But I did hear it from another familiar voice:

"Mi vida, Ludivina!" I heard.

Then I heard "Divi?"

Only two people used those names for me...my grandmother...and Moritz.

****************************

Who is this? And how the hell do they know where you are?

Those were the first things I heard.

One question came from Noe.

The other question came from Oso.

But I couldn't answer any question before answering Moritz...or my grandmother.

I don't think I've ever held a conversation with my grandmother at this time, this late. She's usually in bed by nine.

"That who is early to bed, is early to rise, shine, and thrive," she would proclaim like a prophecy, right before strutting upstairs and tucking herself right into her nine-by-five-fly bed.

She was a hardworking woman—my grandmother; always has been—so I understood her.

Moritz wasn't like that though—like my grandmother. He wasn't one for facetiae writings or feelings—not that my grandmother was, but she was more prone to them, always coming from corporate America, always stuck in this plan they've all built for us.

"Babe? What's going on?" Moritz blurted, getting straight to the point, leaving the facetiae-dialogue for when we were—hopefully—back on the other side of the Wall.

The word Babe sounded off to me now. It didn't sound like my "nametag" anymore—if it ever was one (I'm starting to think it wasn't).

How could I furbish this moment if it didn't feel like one to furbish in the first place?

The bar, if you hadn't predicted, was stunned silent. Oso was lifting himself off the VIP, dragged into this commotion.

You could surely tell Moritz and my grandmother apart from the Black Catz from a mile away. Everything about them was different...starting out with their skin color: light as light, light as the sky on better days; light as Noe's main ingredient in that three-colored shot paring he offered so much.

Noe, with his salient-like sense, offered up a real "ice-breaker," right away.

As usual, the "shots" came out of his mouth. And the glasses and liquid from behind the bar, was lifted off of the bar and placed onto the bar that held our hands—the customer's hands.

With Moritz and my life-supplier in front of me, and the man that recruited me off to the top side, it was time to show my bravura—if I ever did have one.

*************************

Maybe bravura is not the word; maybe it simply doesn't go with me, no matter how hard I try; maybe it's the line that just came up short; maybe it's like the ivy league that isn't ivy; maybe it's a Cornell...leaving the corn...in the L—like the sign raising your purlicue makes?

*************************

A station, not my station, interrupts the DJ. Even he has stopped whatever he was doing...or playing.

I wish I had a station to always listen to. Wouldn't that be nice? A calm station, always playing in your head, like elevator music, but brain music...always calming, always soothing, always taking you up a floor, or down a floor—like life does, but in a more elegant, pleasant, home-y way.

****************************

"Babe What are you doing here?"

I stumble over to Moritz.

The room is still silent. If you dropped a pin, you'd probably hear it. Although, it'd probably be easier to find a bullet in this room, than a pin.

Oso begins to make his way down the short flight of stairs. But for me, like in all the movies, everything was a mile longer than usual. That slow motion effect had kicked in. Do you think it all stems from your brain's chemical imbalance? Okay, grappling thoughts....

"How did you find me?" I'm able to let out.

My mind, brain, cranium—whatever you want to call it—spins in a quadrant. It can't even complete a full circle. It is that drained—like my body.

My grandmother and Moritz almost look bushwhacked, stunned, dismayed, flabbergasted.

In an appalled tone, my grandmother steps forward.

"Ludy—get in the car," she says.

But Oso isn't that easily sold. My uncle Benicio knows that. Maybe that's why he's not here right now? Or maybe that's why he's in the car that my grandmother is telling me to go to?

My grandmother must have not heard what happened at my uncle's store. Or maybe she did hear and she simply does not give an F. Or maybe she knows something I don't know for her to call me over "to the car" so nonchalantly, like she was just picking me up from the mall on some other day, on some weekend back when I was still free, or like when she would pick me up from soccer practice, or a friend's house, back in our old, regular life—I don't know why she calls me to the car so carelessly as she does—but she should know we're nowhere near our normal life.

Whatever my grandmother knows, she knows enough to repeat her in the car precept.

But my grandmother's precept goes with her—back in her mind—when my mind reminds me about Moritz, and his location, and the question of how the hell he got to his location—which is my location as well. Did he come with my grandmother? Since when were they both friends, or compatriots, or anything at all enough to hang out together? Moritz hardly ever made it to my place. We mostly hung out at his parent's place, being that his parents were always somewhere other than their place.

Acrimoniously, Oso stepped onto the closest possible radius he could before stepping over Moritz.

"And who are you? Miss Divine's boyfriend?" he quipped, singingly.

"Looks like it," Pamela interjected, without anyone asking her to interject.

**************************

Do you ever think—I've never thought this, but I do at this moment—that our "human version" of hell—if hell exists at all—is simply a life where your soulmate doesn't love you?

But then again, soulmates could all be a made up theory; they could all just be something imaginary—a thing of the past, a thing of nothing.

I don't believe Moritz is my soulmate. I love him, but not in that way. Not in the way where I'll die with him, and for him. That doesn't mean, however, that I would be fine with anyone hurting him, or me getting him hurt—none of that is acceptable in my head, whether I love Moritz, or not.

**************************

"He's not my boyfriend," I reply for Moritz.

Oso looks at me.

So does Moritz.

There is a more painful look to Moritz' view than there is to Oso's view.

I don't believe Moritz would have thought I was his soulmate. I believe we're too young. But thinking back, Moritz's views are way different than mine. Maybe he does think that—that we're soulmates; maybe he thinks we belong together 'till death. No, he possibly can't. His parents will never allow that. Or maybe they won't care.

"So why does it look like he cares so much?" Oso asks, looking back at Moritz, looking back straight at him.

With no diffidence, Moritz says "what is it to you."

Oso doesn't like that.

"Moritz-," I interrupt, before Oso can react at my sudden blurting, and his overthinking.

"No—let me talk, god dammit," Moritz reacts, even making my grandmother jump back. I believe she wanted to let Moritz talk, but she had her own damn things to say—as we all do; maybe it's all of our damn things that we have to say that got us here in the first place.

"Honey—we can talk it all out in the car," my grandmother says.

Oso laughs with Congo.

And I think: here we go again, with the car thing, with the thinking we're back home, on the other side of the Wall, with my grandmother picking me up from school, with her living out the day like it was any regular, old-fashioned day.

But nobody is taking my grandmother's advice here. We're definitely not home anymore.

*****************************

"I'm sorry, mam, but I came to find her, I've been worried sick about her, and all she can say is, he's not my boyfriend," Moritz lets out, in all of his wining glory—whatever glory he was allowed—wining at my grandmother.

"Moritz, we can talk outside -" my grandmother says.

"-- um, you're not going anywhere, miss divine," Oso interrupts, ruining my grandmother's plans as I believed he would.

I don't make the rules here. And if my grandmother would have been here as long as I've been here, then she'd know she doesn't make the rules here either, and she can't fix them or tailor them to her liking either. This isn't the other side of the wall. People don't just "get in cars" here. In fact, most of them don't have cars at all. They're on foot. So maybe they can "get on foot"?

Outside, the night already turned the streets a pitch black. From what I can see from where I'm standing, at least.

I don't see "this car" that my grandmother is talking about. And I still don't see my uncle Benny. He must have stayed back. He must have thought with his good portion of his brain. He must have done what he knew was sensible. Allowing Moritz and my grandmother here though, that was some risky shit—that was not sensible.

"Why does she say you're not her boyfriend? And who is this lady telling her to get into the car?" Oso asks Moritz. Congo was right behind him, as he always was.

Their vests were still on them like they were expecting more bullets to come flying through the door. But the only thing I'm expecting is cars outside. Or one car, at least—the car my grandmother keeps talks about.

"Who are you? Divie? Who are these people? And what is this place?"

"Hey! You talk when I allow you to talk!" Oso slaps Moritz into shape, only telling him after telling him.

"These are the Black Catz" I tell Moritz, in my mind and out of my mouth.

"Ay, Ludy!" my grandmother mutters. But why?

"Who are the Black Catz?" Moritz asks, trying to step closer to me, reaching out with his hand, only to be pushed back by Oso.

"Who asked for them?" Oso turns back to ask Congo, whom then turns back to ask the other Catz behind him.

They all shrugged in that "we don't know" manner.

Oso turns back at Moritz and my grandmother, whom both reply with a "look—we just want to take her back."

"Oh, so miss Divine here hasn't told you about what she did to one of our recruits?" Oso lets out.

Of course I didn't, I think. How could I? I have no mobile? Remember? Oso broke it. There is no way of getting ahold of them—even if I wanted to.

***********************************

"Sir, we can pay you whatever you want," my grandmother begins to pout.

Oso and Congo laugh.

Also: when Oso said before "this is not who we asked for" to Congo, I wonder who it was that they asked for; who were they expecting; was that what Oso was so secretive about to the strangers still sitting in the VIP areas when I saw them being secretive there?

"You people from the other side of the Wall think everything is solved with paper, eh?" laughed Congo.

It was the first time in a while that I heard him reply before Oso. Was he regaining courage?

"It's not about the money, lady," Oso continued Congo's thoughts and feelings. "And who are you anyway? I know this is her 'boyfriend,' as so he says," he then laughed off, at Mortiz—both him and Congo.

******************************

Are we all just one freak out away from going bat-shit crazy; from going crazy... crazy; from freaking out...freaking out?

Is my grandmother?

Am I?

Is Moritz?

Have Oso and Congo already freaked?

******************************

Where is Noe when you need him to deflect a situation and serve up some shots instead?

"Should we talk with some drinks?" he finally asks; by he, I assume you know who I'm talking about.

"What?" snivels Moritz.

I had the same reply, when I first arrived, I wanted to say...but didn't.

"Come on, have some," says Pamela—no, insists Pamela—even pulling out a chair at the bar, a small, nice gesture I had never seen her perform before.

She, actually—and weirdly—was probably the only welcoming-sounding Cat in the bar at the moment. And maybe not just even at the bar, but in it too.

"I'm sorry, but I believe I asked a question," Moritz sniveled again, thinking he'd get a different reply, or a different rank of authority on what goes and what is said in this place, on this side of The Wall, but he didn't.

******************************

It's funny how people look at physical genes when mating; most of the people look at what they want their inheritance to look like, but they never think about what they want them to think like; they never think about looking for those that think better than they look.

So why me with Moritz?

Who would choose a harebrained, overthinking, clumsy (if you haven't seen from my uncle's store) girl like me?

And to choose a person like me when a guy like Moritz can choose any girl, being the football captain and all. Why?

Maybe it's the sports. The fact that I only play soccer to not let myself get out of shape...mentally. Maybe it's that. I need those endorphins more than they need me, that's for sure. I see that now, more than ever.

So maybe, Moritz and I only connect over the fact that we both play soccer.

******************************

What are we playing now? What is Oso playing? Who is he really waiting for? Who was he expecting? I know it wasn't my grandmother or Moritz.

"Why do you care so much about her, brother?" Oso asks.

"Why do you all need her?"

"That's right, I didn't tell you how she shot and killed one of my men. And the law in these lands has it that we take an eye for eye. Is that how they say it on your side of The Wall?"

The clinking of Noe's glasses increases behind me. But I don't want to turn to see if he's just rambling to distract himself or if he's pouring more drinks.

"Do you want to take her place, tough guy?" Oso jokingly teases Moritz, looking back at Congo, wondering if he was thinking the same thing—inviting him to become a Cat for me. "If we let your girlfriend go, it's only because someone takes her place. And she's clearly out-of-age to do so," he then laughs with Congo, looking at my grandmother.

*******************

"Why can't I take her place?" insists my grandmother.

And I think: here we go again; here we are back at my uncle's store when he was the one begging to take my place.

But still: why not him though; why not my uncle? He's not that old. Or maybe it's that Oso has a "type".

Oso and Congo laugh at my grandmother's suggestion.

Moritz's jacket—fleece, black, hanging—fazes out of place here. It misses the mark. It is invisible. But underneath it (his jacket), his logo of the state basketball team shows his foreign mindset, apart from those here, apart from the worries these people, here, have to worry about—unlike Moritz, and his basketball team's players, and their supporters, and their supporter's supporters, these people had nobody to support them, let alone help them.

How can I go back to my old life, when I think of it as a curse now? Was Black Catz something I was meant to stumble upon? Pardon my pun: but it was something I never aimed towards.

"I'll take her place," agrees Moritz.

"No you won't," I quickly reply.

How can I live with myself knowing I allowed someone to sacrifice their life for me?

The only thing I ever wanted in life was to be able to pay my grandmother back for everything she's ever done for me. And now, it looks like I won't even be able to do that.

Fernando intervenes when I want him to:

"Why don't you all come join us," he says, lifting the glass Noe had just handed him, looking over at Moritz.

But what would Moritz know about coming in, and out, from a bar and into a battlefield. I wonder if he's even ever been to this side of The Wall.

If only my grandmother and Moritz knew about the purrrg, or the freezer area (as they call it—the Catz), or the convertor—as Oso says; or whatever they want to call the area where Felix is stored, along with the others they've lost (the Catz)—like the one they lost by my hand.

I can't risk them visiting that area. I can't risk them being taken like that.

"We can just let them go if I stay," I say to Oso, making sure of that myself. "We can surely let them go."

"They're not going anywhere," he replies.

"Sir—I just want my granddaughter back."

"Listen lady—and miss divine's boyfriend—your loved one here made a wrong decision. And now, nobody is taking her place. She has a debt to pay. And she's not going anywhere until she pays that debt."

"I'll pay you," says Moritz.

"Oh, please—put your wallet away."