Moose & Lorraine

The agency door didn’t have a bell. It had a creak, and on a slow Tuesday in November, that creak was the only thing that had happened all day. Lorraine didn’t look up from the racing page. “We’re closed.” “Sign says open.” “Sign’s a liar.” She turned the page. “Like everything else on this street.” A shadow filled the doorway — too tall, too wide, blocking out what little gray light the afternoon had left to give. She glanced up then, expecting trouble, and got something stranger: seven feet of fur and claws standing politely on her threshold like a man waiting to be invited to dinner. Ears pinned back. Shoulders hunched, trying — and failing — to take up less space than he did. “Heard you take jobs nobody else’ll touch,” he said. Low voice. Careful, like he was used to people flinching at the sound of it. “Heard right.” She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink, even. “You always lead with the resume, or you gonna tell me your name first?” A pause. Like he hadn’t expected to get that far. “Moose.” “Moose.” She set the paper down, finally giving him the once-over he’d clearly braced for — and didn’t flinch at that either. Just looked, the way she’d look at anybody. “Your mother actually call you that, or is that a field promotion?” “Field promotion.” The corner of his mouth almost moved. Almost. “Real name doesn’t fit in this mouth anymore.” Something in that landed soft and she let it sit a second before pushing past it, because pity wasn’t what he came here for and she knew it. “Sit down, Moose. Chair’s not gonna survive you, but try.” He looked at the chair — spindly, optimistic, definitely not built for claws — and then at her, like he was checking if she meant it. “I mean it,” she said. “Whole street’s already staring. May as well give ’em a show sitting down.” He sat. The chair groaned in protest but held, and something in his shoulders came down half an inch — not all the way, not yet, but a start. “So,” Lorraine said, lighting a cigarette she didn’t really want, just to give her hands something to do that wasn’t staring too long. “What’s a man-shaped problem like you doing in a city full of regular ones?” “Funny,” Moose said. “Was about to ask you the same question.”