The note was written in haste, the handwriting slanted and smudged:
“Free to a good home. Her name is Miso.”
The cat didn’t understand the words, but she understood the tremor in her owner’s hands as she was placed in the box. The girl—Emma, age 19—had cried for hours that morning, arguing with a man whose voice boomed through the apartment walls. “It’s the cat or me!” he’d shouted.
Miso licked Emma’s fingers as she tucked her into the box. “I’ll come back,” Emma whispered. “I promise.”
But the car ride ended at a deserted crossroads. The box was left by a rusty stop sign. Miso waited.
Emma never returned.
The crossroads were a symphony of danger: semis roared past, their headlights blinding; rain turned the box to pulp. Miso survived by instinct. She ate moths drawn to the stoplight’s glow and drank from potholes slick with gasoline.
At dawn, an old trucker named Hank spotted her. “Hey, little lady,” he said, scattering jerky crumbs. Miso darted away. Trust no one, she’d learned from Emma’s boyfriend, who’d kicked her when she begged for food.
Hank returned daily, leaving kibble in a dented hubcap. “Stubborn, ain’t ya?” he’d chuckle. Miso watched from a drainage ditch, her golden eyes wary.
One night, a stray tomcat with a chewed ear—Rust— ambushed her, stealing her food. “Crossroads are mine,” he hissed. Miso fought, earning a gash on her shoulder. She retreated, licking her wound. Was this all she deserved?
Snow transformed the crossroads into a wasteland. Miso’s gray fur matted with ice; her paws cracked and bled. Hank’s truck stopped coming—he’d had a heart attack, locals said.
Rust reappeared, gaunt and limping. “Truce?” he rasped, dropping a half-eaten mouse at her paws. They became unlikely allies, sharing warmth in a hollowed-out hay bale.
But survival had rules. When a speeding SUV swerved toward Rust, Miso yowled a warning. He escaped; she didn’t. The mirror clipped her hip, leaving her dragging her hind leg.
“You saved me,” Rust said, nosing her toward an abandoned barn. “Now I’ll save you.”
The barn was a graveyard of rusted tractors, but it shielded them from wind. Rust brought Miso beetles and licorice roots stolen from a nearby gas station.
One March morning, a woman in a faded blue jacket—Marisol, the postal worker—found them. She’d taken a wrong turn, chasing a runaway package.
“Dios mío,” she murmured, spotting Miso’s twisted leg. Rust bolted, but Miso stayed. Something in Marisol’s voice reminded her of Emma—soft, but urgent.
Marisol emptied her lunchbox, offering turkey slices. “I’ll be back,” she vowed.
Miso waited. Another promise.
Marisol returned at dusk with a carrier and a teenage son, Luca, whose hands smelled of motor oil and peanut butter.
“She’s feral, Mom,” Luca warned. “She’ll scratch your eyes out.”
But Miso let Marisol lift her, too weak to fight. At the vet, they shaved her matted fur, revealing scars from Rust’s claws and Emma’s boyfriend’s boots.
“Microchip says her name’s Miso,” the vet said. “Last owner never registered it.”
Marisol traced the cat’s jagged ear. “She’s not Miso anymore. She’s Suerte—‘luck’ in Spanish. Because we found each other.”
Suerte’s leg healed crooked. She hid under Marisol’s bed for weeks, flinching at slamming doors. Luca won her trust with patience and Churu treats, whispering secrets about his absent father.
One night, Marisol sobbed at the kitchen table—a missed mortgage payment, a layoff notice. Suerte leapt onto her lap, purring. “You’re stuck with me, huh?” Marisol laughed wetly.
Meanwhile, Luca posted photos of Suerte online. Thousands shared her story: #CrossroadsCat. Donations poured in—food, vet bills, even job offers for Marisol.
A year later, Suerte sits in Marisol’s passenger seat, wearing a harness. They park at the stop sign where her box once sat.
“You’re safe now,” Marisol says. Suerte chirps, watching a butterfly land on the weathered stop sign.
But then—a shadow. Rust slinks from the ditch, scarred and thinner.
Suerte yowls. Marisol freezes. “Is that… her old friend?”
Rust stares, then drops a dead vole at Suerte’s paws. A gift. A goodbye.
Marisol opens the carrier. “Come on, tough guy. Let’s get you checked out.”
Rust hesitates, then climbs in.
Today, Suerte and Rust nap in sunbeams at Marisol’s tiny home. Luca runs a TikTok channel for their rescue, Crossroads Tails, which funds a community food bank for strays.
Emma once messaged the account: “Is that Miso? I’m so sorry.” Marisol never replied. Some wounds, she thinks, don’t deserve closure.
Suerte still visits the crossroads on anniversaries. Marisol thinks she’s remembering the pain—but really, Suerte listens. For every engine that roars past, she hears a cry. And when she does, she leads Marisol to cardboard boxes, abandoned pets, and broken promises.
Because Suerte knows:
The crossroads don’t have to be an ending. They can be a beginning.
