Marcus shivered and pulled up the hood of his jacket. The wind was merciless, hurling snow and ice in his face.
He was tall for his age, with long limbs and a face scarred from years of life on the streets. His eyes were like chips of gray marble. As he stood there, he thought he heard a faint meow. He looked around and saw nothing but white snow, gray concrete and red brick.
"Meeow!" he heard.
A tabby, rake thin, slunk out of an alley. Its fur was short and wiry, sort of a dirty-tan color.
"Hello there," he said, his voice hoarse from the cold.
The cat looked up at him with unwavering eyes. Then it stepped forward and rubbed itself against his leg.
"Good cat. Nice cat," he said, bending down to pet it. The cat purred.
Marcus decided, then and there, that he would keep her. "And I'll call you Mica," he told her softly.
