The penny drops, there’s nothing, nothing to wear! My eyes dart around the change room. The lockers. Empty, empty, all of them empty or locked! “Aaaaaa!” I’ve done it again! I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold onto the fleeting warmth, but it's already fading. I’m soaking wet, even my hair is dripping and I’m really getting cold. I need a towel, I need dry clothes.

  Now what? My mind races, but it’s hard to think through the chattering of my teeth and the goosebumps prickling my skin. My uniform. It’s still in my storeroom, on the other side of the school. It’s damp, but it will have to do. It’s all I have. The thought of running through the silent, empty halls, naked, is repulsive. Imagine if the boys were here to see, I’d die of shame, but the cold is worse. The cold hurts. It’s clawing at my skin, seeping into my bones again, it’s merciless. I have to.

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I push open the change room door and step out into the vast, echoing gym. The walls have eyes. I can feel their stares and the silence feels even heavier now, pressing in on me, like something holding its breath, waiting to pounce. My bare feet slap softly on the polished wooden floor, each sound magnified, bouncing off the high ceilings. I don’t look at anything, I don’t think about anything, I just keep my eyes fixed on the distant double doors leading back to the main hallway and the lobby.

  I run. Not fast, my legs still ache, but with a desperate, clumsy urgency. The cold air whips around me, raising fresh goosebumps. Every shadow seems to lengthen, to twist into something scary, sinister, watching. My breath comes in ragged gasps, loud, so loud and my heart thumps like a huge drum in my ears. The shame is burning me alive, the knot in my stomach getting bigger, tighter with every step, but the cold… the cold pushes me onwards.

  As I burst through the doors into the main lobby, I falter. My eyes dart to the floor and my stomach drops. Water. A trail of water leading from the wide-open entrance doors, a river of shining wetness slinking further down the corridor, to the stairs, to the nurse’s office, to my storeroom. “Oh no.” My heart almost forgets to beat for a moment, then sputters back to life, a frantic, terrified drum against my ribs. Oh god, not dogs, please don’t be dogs… please no. I push myself as fast as I can, trying not to make a sound, desperately listening for any sign of my visitors. But I can’t hear them, I can’t see them, all I can see is their paw prints, so many of them, going exactly where I’m going.

  I follow the trail, my bare feet squishing on the wet linoleum, the cold and the fear stabbing me all over, like teeth, fangs. Each print is clear, defined by the water. So, so many, leading me like a grim path. They’re big prints. Too big for a cat, too many. They have to be dogs. The thought makes my blood run cold. I remember the whimpering dog on my street, the one that looked so sad. But he was behind a gate. These aren’t behind a gate... they’re here with me in the school.

  My breath hitches, a tiny, ragged sound. The prints lead directly around the corner, into the small corridor that leads to the art room and my storeroom. A wave of pure, unadulterated terror washes over me, freezing me to the spot. My teeth chatter so violently I think they might crack. No. No, no, no. This can't be happening. Not here. Not now!

  I creep closer, each bare footstep agonizingly slow, the squishing sound on the wet floor deafening in the silence. As I round the corner, they’re there. A mass of them. Nine, Ten, maybe more, scattered in the corridor, sniffing, nudging, poking around at the door to the art room, my barricade. The stink of wet dog and something else, something strong and sickening sweet and disgusting, like the staff room.

  My stomach twists into a tighter, more painful knot. My mind screams at me to run, to turn and flee, but my feet feel rooted to the spot. My hands fly up, clamping over my mouth to stifle a whimper. Their shadows, long and distorted, dance under stark white lights.

  And then, one of them looks up. A dark, terrifying, form. Big, so big, with deep, brown eyes, sharp as daggers. A low growl rumbles in its chest. My mind is screaming in silent terror, my body locked up, paralyzed by a fear so deep it bypasses all logic. The big dog takes a step towards me, its tail giving a tentative, almost curious wag. It is bigger than any dog I've ever seen up close, its body lean and powerful. The other dogs start to take notice, their heads turning, a ripple of awareness passing through the pack. A couple of them whine, a low, searching sound. Another one lets out a short, sharp bark that sends a jolt through me, making me flinch and take a desperate half-step back.

  I freeze. My stomach clenches again and I feel something hot trickle down my leg. The shaggy dog takes another step, then another. Its nose twitches, its head tilts. It’s coming closer, the click of its claws on the hard floor. Its low rumble gets louder and the rest of them pad forward too. I can’t outrun them. There’s no way, there’s no way!

  I bolt. Behind me, a sudden chorus of barks and excited yelps, the skittering, scrambling sound of their claws on the slippery floor as they lunge forward, responding to my movement. I can’t outrun them, there’s no way! With a surge of pure, primal terror, I pivot and lunge for the nearest classroom door. My bare feet slipping on the wet linoleum. But I manage to stay upright, throwing myself inside the classroom and slamming the door shut behind me with all my might. The sound of the latch clicking into place is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I lean against the door, panting, my body shaking violently, tears blurring my vision. Outside, the dogs crash against the door, the thud, the barking, their frustrated growls, amplified by the hollow door. I can hear them sniffing, scrabbling at the wood, whining.

  There’s something between us, I’m safe. The lightning in my blood turns to jelly and I slide down the door, collapsing to the floor in a heap. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I can still hear them, a restless, angry mass on the other side. My skin prickles with cold and fear. I’m safe, for now, but soaking wet, freezing, and now I’m trapped too. Fantastic…

  My eyes scan the classroom: rows of empty desks, a blackboard and a teacher’s desk. Large windows line the far side of the room. Dark portals into blackness, and the relentless, pouring rain. The night is pressing in, the sky as dark as I have ever seen it, and the rain seems heavier than ever. I have to get to my storeroom. My uniform. My food. My safe place.

  I crawl over to the window, peering out. I can barely see a thing, the heavy rain turns all light into a blurry, distorted haze. It’s a wasteland of blinding bright blobs and seething dark, wet and cold. The ground outside is probably muddy and slippery. But the dogs are outside the door. This is the only way out.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, I push the window open, feeling the cold rain on my skin. The wind whips through the open pane, carrying the scent of wet earth. Just rain. Just the outside. The darkness is absolute, only a small ring of light exists around the windows, beyond, cold, soaking black dotted with indistinct, glowing blurs.

  Hoisting myself onto the sill, I pause, the cold, wet metal biting into my bare skin. My muscles protest but there’s nothing else I can do. One leg out, then the other. The rain hits me instantly, a thousand icy needles pricking every inch of my body. It's not just cold, it's shocking. My feet dangle in the open air, searching for the ground but it’s further away than I thought, or maybe it’s right there? It can’t be that far, can it? The bite of the metal frame is too much, my fingers strain against the sharp edge and a low whimper escapes me.

  I let go.

  The fall is short, jarring. My bare feet land with a squish, digging into something soft and uneven. Mud. Cold, thick mud that oozes between my toes. I stumble forward, catching myself with outstretched hands, palm first into the muck. My teeth start to chatter uncontrollably, my whole body convulsing with shivers as I push against the squishy ground, shambling forward. The driving rain slashes against my face, stings my eyes, blinding me. I can't see my hands in front of my face. All I can do is keep touching the rough brick wall and hope as the rain lashes down, soaking me utterly, running in freezing rivulets down my skin.

  I’m outside, outside in the terrifying night, freezing and exposed, with no idea where to go. All I know is that the dogs are still inside, and I have to find a way back in. The school building looms behind me, a shapeless silhouette against the ebon sky, its windows like huge empty eyes, or yawning mouths, filled with a deep, dark, nothing. Just get inside. Just get warm. The thought, a faint whisper against the roar of the rain and my own chattering teeth. But the fear of what awaits me inside, of those shifting, sniffing shadows, remains.

  My fingers, numb with cold, brush against the rough brick wall, slick with the drumming rain, searching for a handhold; anything to guide me in the storm. The rain is a relentless assault, its force overwhelming; feeding rivers through my hair and down my senseless skin; chilling me to the bone, but I push forward, one shuffling step after another. I need to find a door, a window, any desperate way back inside; out of this freezing hell.

  Then, a tiny, almost imperceptible brush against my ankle. Something soft, something small, moves against my skin. My breath hitches, a fresh wave of terror. Spider? Rat? My mind screams, but my throat seizes, my body frozen, paralyzed. I don't dare look down. There’s nothing between me and the world. I feel utterly exposed.

  A sound cuts through the driving rain, a faint, trembling sound, a small, high-pitched squeak, but it doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like a rat. My eyes snap open wider, straining against the haze. It's not a rat. I can see its white fur shining dully in the sparse light. It's a cat. A small, shivering ball of white fur, huddled close against the wall right in front of me, almost invisible; but eyes, luminous green, burning in the reflected security light like a beacon, staring right at me.

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  My breath catches. A cat. A cat! My hand, numb and clumsy, reaches out, drawn to the tiny creature, a desperate need for something warm, something alive in this terrifying, dead world. The white fur is surprisingly soft, soaked from the rain, but radiating a tiny, precious heat from deep within. It doesn't pull away. Instead, it lets out another soft squeak like before, a sound so small and strange, it's almost swallowed by the rain.

  It’s visibly shaking from the cold and… maybe fear? I squat down and scoop it up in my arms. It doesn’t struggle, it just makes that same, strange little squeak again and lies rigid and utterly still in my arms, shaking and shaking, its body a single, hard knot of cold, wet fur. I cuddle it to my chest and my whole body sags as something heavy and miserable escapes me, just a tiny moment of relief in this storm. There is no purr, no comfort, only tension like a coiled spring and the desperate knowledge that this tiny, broken thing and I are the only survivors of this terrifying night.

  I can’t stay out here. We can’t stay. The thought, cold and clear, cuts through the haze of my exhaustion. I’m shivering so violently now, my teeth chattering so hard that I can barely walk; the cat too, is shaking uncontrollably and its body is as cold as mine. I’m so, so cold. We’ve got to get inside, got to get warm. Go back to the gym, I can figure the rest out after.

  Each step is an effort, my bare feet ache, the rough brick path biting into my soles. The wind and the pouring rain seem to wrap around me, viciously stealing every drop of warmth. But the little cat needs me, it’s my anchor, just a soft, stiff little bundle against my ribs. I’m not alone anymore.

  Then, as if by magic, the roiling wave of water suddenly abates; the school grounds emerge from the fog as if a curtain has dropped; brightly lit by the many outside lights. The relief is immediate, but incomplete; my ordeal is far from over. I still have to get inside. I still have to get warm. I still have to get safe.

  The front entrance is open, I know that but the rest of the school? The classrooms and the side doors? I have no idea. The gym is there, near the lobby. Hot water, warmth. That's what I need first… again… This night seems to last forever. Round and around in circles with no end in sight. Can’t it just be over now, can’t it please just be over?

  My eyes dart between the warm, inviting glow of the lobby and the dark, silent shadows. The dogs… I can almost see them, their hungry eyes, watching. They could be anywhere. Still, I’m so very cold. I don’t have a choice.

  I take a shaky breath and start towards the main entrance, my steps slow and deliberate, my gaze sweeping every gloomy corner, every window, every light. No movement. No sound. Just the wind and the dying trickle of water from the downpipes, soft, tinkling whispers without the roar of the rain.

  At the threshold, I paused, peering into the bright, still, silent hall. It stretches out, empty and vast, the river of tracks on the polished floor reflecting the overhead lights like a dark mirror. The way is clear. I can see the double doors of the gym down the corridor just to the right and there’s nothing to stop me.

  Deep breaths, I hesitate for just a moment and finally, slip inside. My bare feet slap softly on the polished floor as I move quickly towards the gym doors. We pass the vending machines and I realise I’m starving again. But no dogs, no dogs here at least… Every step feels like an eternity, my legs screaming with fatigue, still bruised and aching, but the thought of warm water, of shedding this cold, wet skin, pushes me onward.

  But in the light, in the still air of the lobby, the little white cat doesn’t look so white. It’s covered in god-knows-what. Something slimy, something sticky, something hard and disgusting that has matted and twisted up its fur, something that smells like sewage and something far, far worse. The smell is awful and the thought of… whatever it is on my skin is enough to turn my stomach.

  Soap, there’s no soap in the showers. All I can think of is that delicious, hot water but I have to do something about this horrid sludge. This poor little thing, I wonder how long she’s been like this. My mind is slow from the cold but I look deliberately around the changing room, forcing myself to consider things that don’t make any sense as I shiver and shiver like a leaf in the wind. To the toilet stalls and the lockers and the wash basins against the back wall where mirrors sparkle clean as crystal, and at last my eyes lock on the wall mounted soap dispensers.

  Big, fat handfuls of soap, rubbed in until the lather is thick and creamy and the whole room smells like lavender. I turn on the hot water in the shower, letting the steam rise, not for me, but for her, and set the cat gently down on the tiled floor, holding her tightly with one hand while I plunge the other into her matted, filthy fur.

  The muck on her belly and legs is thick and oily and resistant, like old, sticky tar. I have to fight the urge to throw up as my fingers scrape against the foul substance. I can’t smell it through the soap but I know what it is and that’s enough. It’s hard and crusty near her paws, I have to scrape and claw at her fur, and I wince, afraid I’m hurting her. But she’s as still as a statue. She doesn’t fight, doesn’t scratch, doesn’t even try to get away from the torrent of water, from my scratching, scraping fingernails that scrunch and squish roughly at her fur. She just endures, eyes wide and luminous with fear.

  I rub and rinse, rub and rinse, watching the thick, greasy, brown water swirl down the drain, taking the stinking, yucky gunk with it. The clean water beats down on us, warmth flowing through us, bringing life to our frozen bodies. As the last of the grime finally washes away and my fingers slow into a gentle, rhythmic massage, I feel a change in her body: the rigid knot of terror loosens little by little. Little by little she relaxes into the comforting heat and as the soap and warm water work their magic, she begins to purr.

  I drag her into my lap and with the hot water beating down on us both, I feel a wave of peace so profound it almost hurts. My fingers, raw from scrubbing, move through her wet fur, trying to work out the knots, to feel the small, fragile bones beneath. A collar.

  I gently work my fingers under the wet fabric, my heart giving a little flutter. She wasn’t just a stray. She belongs to someone… belonged to someone. The thought is bittersweet. My mind goes back to the cat I saw before, is this the same cat? She must be, I guess. I’ve never seen another white cat like this. With careful movements, I turn the simple, white collar, finding a small, pink tag with silver embellishments.

  My heart is thumping now, a strange mix of hope and dread. I brace myself, anticipating an address or a phone number—a piece of the world that might still work—but knowing deep inside that it would only lead to more stillness. I use my thumbnail to scrape away the last bit of lather and grime clinging to the tag's surface. It's heart-shaped, cheap, but carefully chosen. The silver lettering is tiny, yet perfectly clear, etched with a name, with her name: Buttermilk.

  I whisper the name out loud, my voice rough from disuse and tears. "Buttermilk." She pushes her wet head into my hand at the sound, her purr deepening into a rich, steady motor. The name is so strange. Who would call their cat Buttermilk? But seeing it there, permanent and shiny, it’s hers. It’s a message from the past, from someone who’s not here anymore, confirming that this fragile creature wasn't born into this nightmare; she was loved.

  “Buttermilk,” Her purr deepens, and she settles in the crook of my knee, drinking in the warmth of the water, just like me. “Your name is Buttermilk.” I repeat it, a tiny smile fighting its way onto my face for the first time in what feels like forever. I’m not alone anymore. I have Buttermilk. We’re in this together now.

  The blissful warmth of the water slowly revives me, chasing away the bone-deep chill, but my clothes are still soaked. And Buttermilk is drenched, her fur clinging to her small frame. I’m not doing this stupid runaround again. We need dry things, a proper towel, something to wrap ourselves up. My eyes drift from the steaming water to the empty stalls around me, then beyond, to the rows of lockers. No dry clothes here for me.

  My mind, still sluggish, works through the possibilities. The lost and found has nothing, shoes and… well. My storeroom is all the way on the other end of the school… The thought of the dogs in that hallway makes my stomach clench. But… I’m dumb. I could have avoided all this misery, some of it… The boy’s changing room… right on the other side of this wall. Maybe there’s something there? No one’s there. No one’s going to see me. No one cares. But it still feels weird. Icky.

  Taking a deep, reluctant breath, I turn off the water, the sudden silence amplified in the small space. The air feels instantly colder, biting at my wet skin. I carefully squeeze the water from Buttermilk’s fur. Purr, purr, purr. Like a little tractor.

  With a final glance at the girls’ lockers, I dip out into the small, empty hall that separates the change rooms. The door to the boys’ is slightly ajar, as if inviting me in. The thought makes my skin crawl. I push it open, slowly, peering inside, my breath coming in sharp puffs as if my body thinks I’m going to get caught… bare butt, sneaking around in the boys’ change room…

  It feels so strange inside, like I’m in another universe. It’s a perfect mirror of the girls’, rows of metal lockers stretching back toward the showers, but the air holds a different smell, the same chlorine but… there’s a faint odor—something vaguely musky, combined with the lingering scent of old, smelly gym socks. Boys are disgusting. I shiver, partly from the cold, partly from the sheer weirdness of being here. But my eyes immediately start to scan the lockers.

  A few are indeed hanging open, some, almost mercifully, empty, others… not. Boys. My mouth twitches into something that might be a smile and I make my way cautiously down the aisle, Buttermilk slinking silently beside me, my bare feet padding softly on the cold tiles. I don’t look at anything too closely, don’t breathe too deeply… gross. Just find what you need.

  Towels? Clothes? They smell like sweat. I’d rather die. But at the far end of the room, salvation. An open locker with a boy’s uniform hanging up inside, a fresh, navy blue towel lies folded beneath it. Why would…? The unfinished question hangs in my mind but I’m already distracted, scrubbing myself dry with all my might. I drag on the clothes, a little big but they’ll do, and they’re clean, smelling of laundry detergent and body spray that reminds me of Michael… Michael.

  I slap my face with both hands. Focus. We’re not safe yet. Next, I rub the little white cat with the towel until she’s just a bit damp and her fur is all fluffed up. Now that we're warm and mostly dry, the exhaustion is taking over but the idea of going back to the storeroom, of running into those dogs again, is unthinkable. My eyes sweep the gym as I emerge from the boys' changing room, Buttermilk now a soft, warm weight in my arms. My gaze drifts across the wide, empty space. Too big, nowhere to sleep.

  In the lobby, the dogs are still nowhere to be seen. Where to go? Somewhere warm, somewhere comfortable, somewhere… small. Somewhere with no still shapes. Not out here, not the classrooms, big and drafty… can’t go back to the store room. The principal’s office. It’s empty and, more importantly, it had that enormous leather chair. It could be warm, and it’s smaller, safer than the gym.

  Slowly, carefully, I move across the polished floor. The principal’s office door is as I left it, closed but unlocked. I slip inside, pulling it shut behind us, and for what feels like the first time all night, I really breathe.

  The leather chair is cool at first, but yields with a soft sigh as I sink into its depths. It’s even more comfortable than I imagined, enveloping me like a giant, protective hand. Buttermilk immediately curls onto my lap, still purring vigorously. I stroke her head, breathing deeply. The world outside feels impossibly far away, muffled by the thick walls and the exhaustion that is finally pulling me under. Safe. For now. With Buttermilk.

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