Chapter 4: Sophia’s Home.

  Sophia’s car wheezed into the 3Johns parking lot, the front left fender rattling like it wanted to make a run for it. For a second, the check engine light flicked off for once. She blinked.

  “Gonna be a good day,” she smiled softly. “Knew if I just ignored it-“ the light came back on.

  “No. You don’t get to play games,” shutting the door with a firm thunk that was half encouragement, half punishment.

  She leaned against the hood, feeling the heat of the Houston air wrap around her like a wet towel. Somewhere nearby, something sizzled—grease or the city itself. Maybe both. The faint coastal breeze reminded her ‘You’re not in East Texas anymore.’ The air was different here. Louder. Oil, asphalt, fried food, cologne, smog, and the vaguely floral smell of crepe myrtles clung to her in layers.

  She thought about back home, where you had to drive half an hour just to get to a Walmart. In between, there was nothing but pine trees, cow pastures, rolling hills, and the occasional faded billboard about hell.

  Here, she passed more people in a single day than existed in her hometown. She used to be able to name everyone in her graduating class. Now, she barely remembered the names of her coworkers. It was overwhelming sometimes but god, it was so much better.

  Houston was like the entire nation to itself and the closest thing to New York she had ever been to.

  She remembered that first week. She’d walked into a grocery store the size of her entire high school, blinking like she’d just entered a sports arena. The ceiling was too high, the lighting too bright, and the layout made no goddamn sense. There were whole aisles for things she’d never even seen before.

  Fruit and vegetables she couldn’t pronounce. Some looked like alien brains in disguise. Jackfruit? Absolutely not from Earth. Bins of spices with colors that didn’t exist back home. White pepper? Definitely not a real spice. These city folk had to have made that up.

  And the people, so many different people. They weren’t just fellow shoppers, they were stories.

  A woman in a full sari and platform heels arguing with her kid in perfect Houston-accented English.

  A white guy in a kilt and a Latino cowboy buying every brand of IPA known to man together.

  A Black woman with electric blue braids pushing a cart with twin girls, singing along to whatever pop song was drifting overhead through the speakers.

  Sophia pushed her cart slowly, trying not to look like she was overwhelmed. She failed. Then, she heard it. Something strange, not human.

  Not a bark, not a meow, but something in between. A sound that sat somewhere between purring and speech.

  Like a vocal cat trying to imitate a vowel.

  She turned her head casually at first.

  And then she saw them.

  A little family of three made of cat people.

  She hadn’t noticed them until she heard them, because out of the corner of her eye, they looked normal and that was because here, they were normal.

  They looked more human than some of the humans she’d passed in the produce aisle.

  And that made it hit harder.

  A couple of parents in soft T-shirts and practical shoes designed for their feet.

  A kid in Crocs and a Spider-Man shirt tugging on a sleeve.

  The parents walked upright on digitigrade legs, tiptoeing on long, furred feet with a smooth, rhythmic grace.

  Their heads were unmistakably feline: muzzles, whiskers, wide golden eyes that tracked movement like a predator.

  Their ears flicked and twitched with emotion, just like a cat’s.

  One of them was cream-colored with black and orange splotches. The other nearly white, with faint gray tiger stripes.

  Their child was a perfect blend of both; white and orange, round-cheeked, bright-eyed, trailing behind them with a snack in their mouth.

  The kid growled with frustration and tried to bite into the corner of a juice pouch.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  One parent sighed and gently helped them thread the straw through the top.

  The other snorted and muttered something that sounded like purring dipped in sarcasm.

  Their partner smacked their arm and gave them a smirk that said ‘cut it out, but also that was funny.’

  They weren’t dressed in flowing robes like Niikri Softpaw wore in the old textbook photos.

  They weren’t wearing a sleek diplomatic suit like Attorney General Sobek Bobtail, all steel posture and inherited dignity.

  And they sure as hell weren’t dressed like Ekoko Tornclaw, the sassy TV queen with a bejeweled cane, burn scars proudly framed by dozens of earrings, and enough eyeliner to kill a man.

  No, these weren’t public figures. These were people. Just a couple of exhausted parents and a kid who clearly needed a nap.

  Sophia stood frozen in the juice aisle, cart halfway between sale apples and bulk ramen.

  The child looked up at her. Their ears tilted sideways—alert, but not afraid.

  Then they lifted a small, paw-like hand and waved. Not with their whole hand, but with their fingers—opening and closing them like a human toddler would.

  Sophia blinked.

  One of the parents noticed her, gave a soft half-wave and a tired smile.

  And it hit her, not in her chest, nor in her head; but in her soul.

  It reminded her of grocery trips with her mom.

  Her little sister always complaining she was hungry. Her older sister glued to her flip phone. Their mom sighing like the cart was just one more burden she didn’t have the strength to carry.

  It wasn’t foreign. It wasn’t alien. It was familiar. She waved back—awkward, a little stiff.

  The Felivar adult blinked slowly. A long, deliberate blink. Not sleepy. Not dismissive.

  Like a cat saying: I see you. I’m not a threat. We’re alright.

  Then they nodded with a little wave.

  Sophia left her cart. Got in her car. Sat there for ten full minutes with the keys in her hand.

  Finally, she whispered:

  “What the fuck.”

  Then again, a little louder, with more breath than voice:

  “What the actual fuck.”

  Now, Houston wasn’t a new, foreign land. Just loud and big and occasionally weird as hell. It was finally starting to feel like home… sort of.

  3Johns Bar & Grill was her little corner of it. A place with rhythm and grease and steam and over spiced fries that put everyone else’s to shame.

  Sophia clocked in, tied her apron, and pulled her hair back. The bar was humming. The kitchen clattered with prep noise.

  And at the register, Jonno was leaning over a tablet, ears slightly back, reading something with the slow, deliberate care of someone born in another century.

  Their voice carried low—so low it almost rumbled sometimes. It was the kind of voice you felt. A good bit deeper than most Felivar but not deeper than most human men. Some customers said “sir” without thinking. Sophia had called them “Mr. Jonno” for weeks and Jonno would murmur “they.” One native Houstonian coworker, Taylor sat her down and said that Felivars don’t follow human gender. “They are they, not he or she.” Sophia felt like so ignorant.

  She later learned Jonno had inhaled something nasty during the War; a mix of fire, toxic air, and collapsing machinery. Their voice never recovered.

  They didn’t always correct people, didn’t waste the energy and most didn’t mean harm but Sophia always corrected herself after that.

  A customer came in—Felivar, short fur with beautiful green eyes and a soft accent she couldn’t place. They were smiling, tail curled politely, speaking quickly and warmly in a language she didn’t understand.

  She nodded along, praying for context clues. She got none and she started to panic.

  She stared into those big eyes like she was trying to become a telepath. When that didn’t work, she looked around for a Felivaren coworker. She looked for the thin body and black and white fur. “Kiko!” she half-whispered, half-yelped across the counter. “Kiko, I need your help! I don’t speak Felivaren, I don’t know what they’re saying!”

  Kiko blinked, deadpan. “Sophia… I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Spanish? Why would a cat speak Spanish?”

  Kiko looked at her like she just said the earth was flat.

  “Really? One that’s from Mexico or South America? A Feluna?”

  Her brain stuttered like a broken vending machine.

  Before she could respond, Jonno waddled over, tail flicking with their usual slow amusement.

  “?Buenas noches, gatite,” they said, smooth as silk, sounding more fluent in Spanish than English.

  The customer’s ears perked and their tail gave a delighted flick.

  “?Buenas noches, Abuele Jonno!” They embraced in a warm hug and a cheek nuzzle.

  Sophia just stood there. Mind blown.

  Jonno spoke Spanish. Felivar spoke Spanish. What else did she not know?

  The day moved on. Sophia moved with it.

  The bell over the door chimed. Sophia didn’t look up—until she heard the voice.

  “Sophia? Well I’ll be! Sophia Smith, is that you?”

  She turned, blinking. It was someone from home. Same nasal accent. Same smile. Same khakis. Joanna and Geryl. She used to babysit their niece or maybe went to church with their cousin.

  They caught up in that weird Southern way where people act like nothing’s changed even when it has.

  Then Joanna pointed, eyes lighting up.

  “Well lookit, hunny—it’s one of them cat people. A Feely-Fur!”

  Sophia froze. She’d heard that term her whole life. Thought it was a cute nickname for cat people and how they would hug and nuzzle. Some Felivar even used it affectionately. But now she was looking at Jonno.

  And Jonno didn’t flinch but they heard it. Their face didn’t react but their tail slapped at the air. They turned and just kept working. That wasn’t good.

  “Does it work here Sophie?” Geryl asked.

  Sophia swallowed hard, “that’s Jonno, the owner; the last of the three Johns the restaurant is named after.”

  “Well that was cute of them to leave it to it.” Joanna chuckled.

  Sophia didn’t.

  Sophia hoped they wouldn’t be staying long.

  “So what can I start y’all off with?”

  She looked up at the photos behind the register.

  Jonathan in his US Army uniform.

  Juan with his son, Gerson, in his Marines dress uniform.

  And Jonno, lean and muscled like a bipedal lion; standing in full battle gear, spear over one shoulder, something alien and deadly in the other hand.

  The sign beneath it read:

  “VETS GET 20% OFF. Thank you.”

  By the time her shift ended, the city had cooled just enough to stop steaming. Her car still sounded like it was running on willpower and a prayer.

  She parked at home. Riley was on the couch, scrolling through something, ears twitching occasionally, tail curled like a comma around one leg.

  She didn’t say anything. Just walked to the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle, leaned against the fridge.

  She realized she’d been here longer than she expected.

  Longer than she planned.

  And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was just passing through.