He remembered Mèo, alone in the night, wandering through the far end of the apartment, making a cry that was unlike any other sound he made, unlike a sound I had heard any animal make. It seemed to be the call of an animal taken out of the wild, or out of its home, or away from its family. It was more of a wail, a long powerful howl, not a scream or a meow or an ordinary cat cry, but a call from the deepest part of his soul, the wail of the forest. The only time Mèo cried like that was when the home was quiet, usually when everyone was asleep, when he thought he was alone. It was a call for no
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