Alessandro put down his book and pulled the cat, a blur of brown, orange, and blond, into his arms. “What’s sad about her,” he said, “is not that she was wounded but that, if she wanted, she could bound out of here—you know how quick cats are, how fast they can run, and how high they can jump—and she could go anywhere she wanted, away from the battle. She could go to a little town in the Apennines and catch mice under an olive tree, and she’d never hear a gunshot again in all her life except when the farmers went out after birds.” He looked at Euridice. “But she doesn’t know. She stays with
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