The coat was ragged. No, not ragged - raggedy. Tatterdemalion in some circles. Tatty, to his mother.

Love, to Matilda.

She slept in the pockets, wrapped herself in the arms and nibbled anxiously at the buttons.

Button.

He'd worn this coat for years. Navy blue pea coat from the army surplus store downtown, his first grown-up purchase. He lived alone then. He went to school, paid his book fees and came home to his one-room flat with a lukewarm kettle and a dusty sleeping bag on the floor.

He'd never had a pet. Allergies always did him in.

Then Matilda appeared, on the landing, outside, sort of shriveled-looking and sad, in the way cats left out too long in the rain can be. He shared his last can of tuna. She curled in the jacket, left discarded by his tatty bed and made herself at home.

For good.