Brindle bats the red ball across sun-warmed grass. It boinks off the man's shoe and he flicks it back. Above them, the blue kite's tail winks gold. Brindle pounces, claws catching the ball mid-air. The park buzzes with cicadas. "Again!" the man calls, lifting the kite higher. Brindle's tail hooks up, eyes locked on the string.
The swing set creaks behind them. Brindle's paws scrape the dirt. The man's laugh rings out, muffled by the buzzing air. She thinks: Not yet. Not yet. Let me have one more. The ball arcs, the kite dips, the whole world tilts gold and green and loud.
Then the sky turns the colour of a bruised plum. Fat raindrops hammer the path. The blue kite sags, dripping, against the man's fist. Brindle's ball rolls past the bench and vanishes into the grey undergrowth. Her paws find nothing but cold mud.
She sits. Ears pinned back. The smell of wet leaves and ozone thick between them. The wind tears the kite free of its string and it spirals into the black. Brindle stares at the mud. Where did the warm day go?
The lanterns gutter, one by one, and the park goes black as ink. Then Brindle hears it. A wet, dragging shuffle on the cobblestones. Three zombies lurch out of the hedge line, soaked coats flapping, jaws slack, moaning low in the rain.
Her fur rises. Every hair along her spine stands stiff. The squelch of their feet grows closer. Closer. The man's hand closes around her scruff, lifting her off the ground. She hisses. Not now. Not again.
The man presses Brindle against his chest and runs. His shoes slap wet stone. Behind them, the zombies shuffle in unison, arms swinging, moaning "warmth… warmth…" as they drag their feet. Ahead, a kitchen window blazes orange through the black.
Brindle's claws dig into his sleeve. Rain stings her ears. She hisses once — sharp, bright — as the nearest zombie's fingers brush the hem of his coat. The honey-light pulls at their faces. Closer. Closer. Hold on. Hold on.
Brindle's paws hit the warm tile. She scramps to the window seat. The zombies stop short at the threshold, heads tilting, confused, their moans fading to a muffled murmur beyond the glass. The man turns off every light except the one over the stove.
The kitchen hums. The kettle ticks. Brindle curls into a tight ball at the sill, one paw draped over the edge, watching the rain while the warmth stays on the inside. Outside, the dark goes still. Safe. Just safe and still.