You were the last one. No one wanted you, which is the reason I did. I guess I projected myself onto you from the start. You were black, all over, like the cats witches kept in my childhood storybooks. I could hold you in one hand back then. My palm became something of your own personal Speakers' Corner: a platform from which you could broadcast your manifesto of squeaks. What were you saying? I don’t know, but I do know you were a little ball of fur. I remember, back then, wondering who I would be all those years in the future when you died before me, as I knew – barring an accident – you would. We are so insecure as teenagers. We have so much ahead of us. We don’t know what life will be.