Good Luck, Fatty

a handlebar through the chain links. Then he takes the Schwinn—without asking—and does the same. “They’ll be fine.”
    I’m not sure how having our bikes precariously dangling in the air will stop anyone from stealing them, unless potential thieves assume we’re insane and, therefore, steer clear of messing with us. “If you say so,” I agree. I give the punks another glance and jog a few steps to catch up with Tom, who has made an abrupt beeline for the woods.
    We get forty feet into the trees before I realize we have, in fact, hit one of the trails, which is rather awesomely marked with ruby-red crosses on every fifth tree. What is not so awesome is the carpet of debris—rocks and leaves, logs and branches, curious mountains of mud—that threatens to trip me with every step. “Hey, slow down,” I beg. I hate to let my size get in the way of, well, anything…but sometimes it’s inevitable.
    Tom backtracks a few steps. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. He offers me his hand, which I accept with gratitude. It’s a nice hand, warm and smooth and substantial, even with the string-bean fingers. The kind of hand a boyfriend should have. Or a husband.
    “BUUUTT-er-cup!” I call, hoping my little buddy is somewhere in this patch of woods and will recognize my voice—and his name—and come trotting. “BUUUTT-er-cup!”
    I yowl until my throat goes hoarse, Tom squeezing my fingers periodically in encouragement and reassurance. He takes over and calls for a while too, but eventually we’ve exhausted our lung power and the available trees. “He might not be here,” Tom says, seconding my thoughts in the matter.
    We drift out of the woods into a clearing behind a housing development that resembles a diorama I constructed in first grade out of shoe boxes and macaroni. “Maybe he lives over there,” I say, an odd thought having just occurred to me: Maybe Buttercup has a real family and isn’t a stray at all.
    An aching pain gnaws at my chest, a feeling I recognize from the night Marie and Duncan deposited me on Gramp’s front stoop. And the night after that. And the night after that.
    “I doubt it,” Tom says. He nods at the cookie-cutter complex. “This place doesn’t allow pets. They’re considered a health hazard or something.”
    I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Oh.” It’s not like I begrudge Buttercup a family, it’s just that, if he has to choose to belong to someone, I wish it would be me.
    At a snail’s pace, Tom and I survey the perimeter of the hulking masses of red-shingled timber (six buildings, to be exact) that, although they purport to be “Senior Living Condominiums,” could just as easily pass for optometrists’ offices or the headquarters of the IRS.
    “You hungry?” Tom asks as we dodge an enormous puddle that, unlike the rest of the dampness on the pavement, has failed to evaporate with the intensifying afternoon sun.
    Am I ever not hungry? “Kind of,” I admit.
    He eases his hand away from mine and goes into his jeans, pulling out two Milky Ways. “Here,” he says, offering one to me with a satisfied smile.
    I shake my head. “I…uh…” I mutter, not wanting to offend him when he looks so proud. I’ve been ticking off the Milky Way-less days on a calendar at home: thirty-two and counting. He gives me the saddest puppy-dog eyes, his lips dissolving into a disappointed frown (and leaving me no choice). “Thanks,” I say, accepting the thing after all. As soon as the candy hits my fingers, they begin to hum.
    Tom unwraps his bar halfway and takes a messy bite. “They’re sorta melted,” he tells me, a coating of chocolate clinging to his mouth.
    Since I’ve already accepted the damn thing, I might as well eat it. Plus, it looks good. And smells good. I tear it open and risk a nibble and…
     Oh. My. God.
    It’s the best Milky Way I’ve ever had, times a million. “Mmm…” I can’t help saying. “Yum.” I run my tongue over my teeth, rescuing every last drop of chocolate-caramel-nougat deliciousness.
    The next thing I know (did I lose time to a sugar coma?), we’re heading for a rock-infested swamp beyond the condominium parking lot. “I’ve seen cats down here,” Tom explains, traipsing along ahead of me. “Not Buttercup, though.”
    As much as I love that mangy mongrel of a cat, I’m beginning to tire of searching for him. But I follow Tom over the bed of muck-slicked rocks anyway, my ankles twisting and mashing as I struggle