He lingers first, watching while Istanbul takes out a small thermos of tea—his own home brew, linden flower, good for health—to pour on the trapped animals. He’s been doing this every week for years now. He can’t keep the patch from being dangerous because it’s outside his city limits, but everything that considers itself Istanbul is Istanbul, so he isn’t completely powerless. The tea hits the tendrils like acid; they screech and wither and fall away. The gull squawks and flaps off, looking disgruntled at being wet with tea, but the newly freed cats run over to rub up against Istanbul’s ankles
