My little brother's graduation weekend. I'm sitting in a veterinary waiting room in the desert, holding a cat who's been with me since I was sixteen.
Her name is Dusty. I found her behind the bus depot, skin and bones, the same week I started driving the route through the retirement community.
The waiting room has a worn karaoke songbook on the table. One page is dog-eared—'Wide Open Spaces.' I used to sing it at the dive bar on the edge of town, back when I thought I'd get out of here.
The vet calls Dusty's name. She's twelve now, kidneys failing. The bill is three hundred dollars. That's two weeks of saving for the wedding fund.
I don't hesitate. I pull out my card like I have it all figured out.
On the drive home, my fiancée texts a photo of her cap and gown from her own graduation ceremony earlier that day. I was supposed to be there. She said she understood when I explained Dusty wasn't eating.
I think about that dog-eared page. 'Wide Open Spaces'—I always imagined that meant leaving. But maybe it just means choosing what you stay for.
I pull into the retirement community and see Mrs. Gannon watering her roses. She waves. Dusty purrs in my lap, weak but warm.
Two weeks of savings gone. I'd do it again tomorrow.