He woke up at three in the morning and went down to the kitchen. The fridge light was the only light. He was awake but not wanting anything from being awake. He put the kettle on and the sound of it warming was a small companion. The cat emerged from somewhere and leaned against his shin; he crouched and scratched the corner of its jaw. He made cocoa because it was that kind of hour. He carried the mug to the armchair by the window, pulled the throw off the back of it, and sat with the mug warm against his chest. Going back to bed could wait.
