From Comes This Time to Float: 19 Short Stories by Stephen Geez:

I’m writing a list of ten.

They always prefer even numbers, but five is cool, too.  I did have nine so far, but I needed #10 to achieve every editor’s dream list, another in the rag-publishers’ annals of “10 Steps to . . .” or “10 Ways You Can . . .” or “10 Things Every Woman Must . . .”  I could have pared this one to eight—still an even number—but the assignment was ten, and trying to think of that last one is what nearly got me killed.

I stretched on the bed there in my new apartment, having finally earned enough by slogging articles and freelancing research to lease a place of my own—about time, for a guy pushing 25.  (Despite my best efforts, Mom spotted my pseudonymous “10 Ways to Empty Your Nest” on a cover in the check-out line, its target the legions still housing and supporting live-at-home young’ns no longer so young.)

I closed my eyes and searched for inspiration amid the random firings of agitated rods and cones.  All my thorough compilation had yielded nine good methods for a “10 Ways to Cut Your Food Bill” piece, but every idea for that elusive #10 proved laughably obvious.  Sure, subsisting on buttered buttermilk biscuits in lieu of Chateaubriand would certainly reduce one’s expenses, but consumers shelling out grocery money on point-of-purchase periodicals want to learn how they can eat braised beef on a buttered-biscuit budget.

My thoughts drifted to other self-help topics I might pitch, anything but how-to’s involving pets.  I didn’t do pets, and I’d never quite mustered the empathy needed to imagine their owners’ challenges so I could fashion a credible list of relevant advice.

That was before Katie cried.

The last thing I recalled of that brainstorming session was noticing the quiet, the solitude not only of inhabiting my own space, but of scoring a third-floor back-end unit in a building so new that for now boasted only one other tenant.  I’d glimpsed but never met the young lady down the hall—Katie, according to the manager—a graduate student from out west, too busy pursuing a degree in veterinary science to show much interest in meeting new people.

So I lay there long enough to doze off, this I know because several “5 Ways to Prove You’re Unconscious” hours had passed when I suddenly found myself in one of those “10 Ways to Protect Yourself In a Fire” dilemmas, the kind we all dread but never truly expect.

I couldn’t breathe.

I had trouble seeing, too, the window light fading with dusk, probing gray smoke closing around me, but that breathing thing certainly ranked up there on any list of reasons to worry you might be about to die.

Even had I not written the fire-safety article, I would still assign rapid egress a spot near the top.  My only alternative being over-the-balcony acrobatics, I opted for the mad-dash strategy.  I grabbed a Step #3 wet towel for my face and threw on a Step #5 long coat with hood for flame protection, then stumbled into the smoke-choked hallway, keeping Step #8 low to the ground.  I hadn’t Step #1 planned and rehearsed my escape route, so I found myself banging into walls and tripping over my feet.

Yes, I lost my way and started freaking out, but in my defense I have two points to offer:

#1: I was trying to find the other tenant’s apartment, and,

#2: You would have freaked, too.

I managed to find her door approximately twenty feet away, several miles from where I was visualizing it.  Despite my brain urging immediate implementation of my get-the-hell-out plan—what some call the “flight reflex”—various parts attached to my butt all worked in concert to pound and kick that door.

Then I paused and listened, confirming the worst: faint sounds of movement, but no audible response to my fevered antics, likely a smoke-inhalation victim in distress.

So I started ramming the door with my shoulder, an entry method considerably more difficult and painful than is normally depicted on television and in films.

The door burst inward, and out flashed a glimpse of dark-gray cat that disappeared instantly amid of swirl of light-gray smoke.  I rushed inside, shouted snotilly around my wet towel, Keystone Copped my way to a blurry-eyed survey of the bedroom and bathroom, then indulged my instincts for self-preservation.

I held the stairwell firedoor open long enough for the frenzied feline to flee, my own butt and its various attachments not far behind.  I stumbled, tripped, got disoriented, and forgot all “12 Ways to Keep Your Wits in a Crisis.”

Rubberized arms grabbed me and hustled me out to fresh, chilly air.  I wiped my eyes in time to see that cat disappear into the adjacent woods, then started choking and coughing.  Some EMT with an oxygen mask became my new best friend.

Crowds gathered, lights flashed, and the sky blackened with darkness that swallowed the smoke.  The crowd’s panic subsided as my rescuers determined nobody had failed to escape.  Soon the captain announced the fire’s demise, its footprint limited to the basement furnace area, living-level damage little more than smoke and soot spread through the ventilation system.  Still, as a precaution, I would not be allowed access to my belongings for at least a day, so I headed for my car to sit and relax while pondering my “20-Point Checklist for Processing an Insurance Claim.”

A bus stopped at the bus-stop out front.  My neighbor burst out clutching her book bag, then broke into a frantic run toward the smoky building.  I chased after her, soon gasping and winded, my head tingling, failing in my efforts to yell assurance—“Your cat, I let him out!”  I caught up to her as a fireman blocked her from entering the building, but my tingling turned to a whirlwind of sparkles, and those rubberized arms had to catch me before I crashed face-first to the ornamental patio, contemporary paving-stone style #7.

“I let—your cat out,” I gasped.  “He’s—okay.”

“Where?  Tell me!  Please!”

“The woods!  The woods!” I blurted, even as those rubber arms (and for this I’m grateful) held me steady.

“The woods?”  I had confused her, a reaction quickly transformed to perplexity.

“He got away,” I said defensively, and for some reason I found myself crossing that off some nebulous list of “Top 10 Ways to Impress a Lady.”

She did look stunning, though.  Her emerald eyes glistened in the streetlamp glow.  Brush strokes of auburn-highlighted blond flowed in perfect symmetry around her features, a gentle nose begging to be nuzzled, full lips suggesting anticipation.  Even in the overarching vulnerability of concern for her kitty, she hinted at the playful tease of a woman who knows men enjoy looking but most desire what they might yet discover.

“Show me?” she asked, her voice breaking now.  The rubber arms let me stand on my own, and after the first tentative steps I managed to lead her past the spectacle of aftermath.  Nothing about that smoky building mattered anymore as we found ourselves in darkness, wading through mud and muck, swiping at industrious mosquitoes, pausing here and there for her to call out.

“Carlysle!” she pronounced calmly, proximity her assurance, connection her promise.  “Carlysle!” she called again, adding quietly to me, “He’s never been outside.”

“Carlysle J. Katt!” she called, her projection of confidence more forced now.  I dared not speak lest the feline sense my deep-seated disdain for short hairy critters on four legs.

“I’m glad you let him out,” she said.  “Thank you.”  Sure, I had let him escape into the woods, but I saved his life.  I was the hero in this picture.  This would work out, thanks to me.

So we waited and listened, and I wanted to brush her temples lightly with my fingertips, then stroke her cheek with the back of my hand and move closer so our breaths would mingle, smoke and perfume.  But what I wanted most was to see her holding her cat, relief in her eyes, everything better how, me promising her a copy of my “20-Point Checklist for Processing an Insurance Claim.”

But Carlysle wouldn’t appear, so we slogged through more mud, gazed expectantly into the blackness, and held our breaths to listen, her voice breaking the silence only to call again and again.  I fetched a flashlight from my car, and we followed paths until woods turned to wetlands, and we got cold and dirty and frustrated and very worried about a darned animal.

And that’s when Katie cried.

Construction materials piled too close to a furnace, and two people stood homeless in the light.  I could always come up with at the least the first five ways to do something, but right then I couldn’t even think of #1 on the list of “How to Flush Out a Scaredy Cat.”

I stood close, hesitant to touch her, then reminded her he must be afraid, too, and maybe he just needed some time.  She might falter in a moment of despair, but I would never let her give up.  She had left her home, her family, her friends, and traveled across the country.  She’d brought Carlysle, not just to look out for him, but so he could look out for her.

That’s when I understood, and my own eyes filled with tears, too, which I still like to think was caused by the smoke, a natural response to expel airborne particulate, bodily homeostasis to maintain visual clarity.

I could see our breaths now, my hands stiff from the cold, a hint of rosy dawn backlighting the fire marshal’s truck, crowd gone, road quiet.  I wanted her to smile.  I wanted to do whatever it takes to make Katie smile.

So I used her cellphone to call a friend of mine who produces music, rousing him before full daylight, #4 on the list of ways to aggravate even the best of friends.  He grudgingly sampled a sound for me, burned it onto a CD, and drove it over.

So as the complex’s residents emerged from the safety of their homes, they found a very odd site indeed: my car parked alongside the woods, engine off, Katie calling for somebody named “Carlysle,” a CD in the stereo intermittently playing the sound effect of an electric can opener.

And that silly cat answered, a tentative meow at first, his fuzzy gray face peering out, not from the woods, but from under the trash bins adjacent to our smoke-damaged building.

He looked confused, tentative, even wary, but when she picked him up and nuzzled him, he purred.

I might have purred a bit, too, but don’t quote me on that part.

That was the first of many times I played a part in making Katie smile.  In the years since, I’ve still never written an article about animals, but I will someday, maybe “10 Ways a Pet Can Change Your Life.”  It’s really too long a  list, though, including how an animal  can offer companionship for an elderly shut-in, teach children the responsibility of caring for another, protect us with warnings of intruders, and be the loyal friend you take along when it’s time to travel far from home to study or work in a lonesome new place.

And sometimes a pet can even bring two people together.

So the final item on my “10 Ways to Cut Your Food Bill in Half” list turned out to be: “Cook for two.”  And when I wrote “12 Ways to Accidentally Meet Your True Love,” I made #1 “When someone needs help, offer it unconditionally.”

Editors always prefer the even numbers, but life plays by its own rules.  When Katie and I found each other, two odd numbers did make an even.  She laughed about that, then pointed out that Mr. Katt makes three.

So I’m still writing those lists, and with Katie expecting now, I figured our three would soon become an even four.  But then Doc said something about twins.  How cool is that?

We’re already writing our own list of five.