Foster Brother
“Give it back! Stop! You’re hurting him!” Sophie, choking on tears, pounded the boy who’d snatched her kitten. She swung at him with all her might, but it was no use. The lad just laughed, squeezing the tiny body tighter in his grubby hands. In desperation, Sophie sank her teeth into his arm—only to be flung aside moments later. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, her chin smeared with something warm. She wiped her face with her palm, saw the red smear, squeezed her eyes shut, and screamed with everything she had.
“Help!…”
Oddly enough, someone *did* hear. Hearing the boy yelp, Sophie cracked an eye open. From where she’d fallen, her view was limited, but she caught sight of her tormentor’s scuffed trainers flipping through the air as he hit the pavement with a thud.
“Oi! What’s your problem? Lost your mind?” His voice lacked its earlier smugness.
“I *will* make you lose yours if you don’t clear off! Touch her again, and you’ll answer to me. Got it?”
The unfamiliar voice was calm, almost lazy.
Sophie turned her head. *Brilliant. Another one.* True, he’d stood up for her—but what next? Panicking, she scanned the ground. *Where—? There!* A tiny ball of fluff lay motionless on the pavement. Still on all fours, she scrambled toward it and brushed her fingers over its side. *Still breathing!* Carefully, she scooped it up, clutching it to her chest. *Run. Get to Gran—she’ll know what to do.* But her legs refused to cooperate.
“You alright? Blimey, you’re in a state!”
The boy crouching beside her was older—gangly, awkward, his attempt at eye contact fumbling but earnest.
“Let’s have a look. Bit your lip or tongue?”
“Dunno…”
“Right. We’ll sort it. Can you stand?”
Sophie shook her head. The shock caught up, and the waterworks returned full force.
“Hey! No tears. He’s gone, yeah? Won’t bother you again. *Ever.* If he does, you tell me. Alright? Now—what’s this?” A grubby hand, nails bitten to the quick, reached for the kitten. Sophie curled inward, shielding it, and wailed louder.
“Alright, alright! Not touchin’ it. Don’t panic!”
She tried to steady herself—and failed miserably.
*Shouldn’t have gone out without Gran today.* She’d practically begged. *I’m big now—starting school next year!* Everyone else played unsupervised. Only she still had a chaperone.
“Sophie love, I need my walks too,” Gran—Eileen Margaret—would tease. “You play; I natter with the girls on the bench. What’s wrong with that?”
“But *everyone* knows you’re watching me!”
“And?”
“I’m *big* now!”
“No argument here. You keep an eye on *me*, I’ll keep one on *you*.”
“I *want* to go alone!” Sophie’s scowl made Gran chuckle. *Just like her dad.* Stubborn. Independent. Wanted to do everything himself. Only, he’d been a boy—Sophie was a girl.
“How about we let Mum decide, eh?”
“No! She’ll *never* let me!”
“Asked her, have you?”
Sophie shook her head. Mum was strict—a surgeon at the hospital. Had to be, or patients wouldn’t listen. But Sophie wasn’t a patient, and the rules were just as firm. “No” meant *no.* Still, Gran had a point—she’d never *actually* asked. Worth a shot.
Mum *did* say yes.
“You’re growing up, you’re right. But—prove you’re trustworthy first. Deal?”
“How?”
“Simple. You play in *our* yard, nowhere else. Stay where Gran can see you from the window. Clear?”
“Even the swings next door?”
“Sophie, where *are* those swings?”
“Next yard over…”
“And what did I just say? Think.”
“Can’t go.”
“Then why ask?”
Sophie nodded, thrilled despite the compromise.
She broke that promise immediately. First, Lottie from Flat 35 showed up. They jumped rope awhile, then Lottie announced she was off to the swings.
“I’m not allowed,” Sophie mumbled, glancing up at their windows. No sign of Gran, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t watching.
“Suit yourself!” Lottie hesitated. “Come on, just for a bit? We’ll be quick—Gran won’t even notice!”
Sophie shook her head. *No. Mum’ll never let me out again.*
Lottie shrugged and dashed off. Sophie slumped onto the bench. *Boring.* The yard was empty. Maybe… just a *quick* run with Lottie? No roads to cross. She checked the windows one last time and bolted after her.
Twenty dizzying minutes later, they headed back—only to spot a kitten sprawled on the pavement near the neighbouring block. No sign of its mother. The girls combed the bushes, calling—nothing.
“It’s *tiny*—only just opened its eyes!” Lottie stroked the mewling bundle in Sophie’s hands. “Can’t survive without its mum.”
“How d’you know?”
“Had a cat before. Mum explained. We gave Misty to my nan—now we’ve got Tubs.”
“*Who?*”
“His full name’s posh—can’t say it. Like some pharaoh’s.”
“A *what?*”
“Ancient king. From Egypt—they *loved* cats.” Lottie giggled. “Our Tubs looks like one. Bald. And *so* ugly even Mum jumps, though she adores him.”
“*No* fur? How?”
“Well, *some*—just really short. Wrinkly, like a raisin!”
Sophie mulled it over, then held out the kitten. “You know how to help.”
Lottie shook her head. “Can’t. Tubs’d bully it.”
“What then?”
Lottie’s reply was cut off by her mum calling her home.
“Gotta dash! Tell me how it goes, yeah?”
Sophie nodded. The kitten nuzzled her palm, so pitiful she nearly cried. *Right. Gran’ll fix this.*
She never made it.
“Oi, midget! What’cha got there?”
Then—*snatch.* The rest was a blur.
“You alright? Cor, you’re a mess!”
The boy—Ben—stayed put, all angles and elbows, trying to meet her teary gaze.
“Let’s see. Bit your lip?”
“Dunno…”
“We’ll sort it. Can you stand?”
Sophie shook her head. The delayed shock hit, and the sobs returned.
“Hey! No tears. He’s gone—won’t touch you again. *Try* it, and he’ll answer to me. Got it? Now—what’s this?”
His grubby hand reached for the kitten. Sophie flinched away, wailing.
“Alright, not touchin’! Don’t fret!”
She tried to calm down—failed.
*Shouldn’t have come out alone.*
Eileen Margaret was waiting by their door. “Sophie! Look at the state of you!”
“Gran, don’t shout! *Look!*” She thrust out the kitten. “He’s alive—but poorly. *Help!*”
“*You’re* the one needing help! Where’s it hurt?”
“Nowhere…”
“Home first. And *who’s* this?” She nodded at Ben, lingering awkwardly nearby.
“He *saved* me, Gran! Fought *proper!*”
“Knight in shining armour, eh? Good lad! What’s your name?”
Sophie gaped.
“Dunno…”
“Honestly! *You!*” Eileen beckoned. Early teens, scruffy. Odd he’d brawl for a scrap like Sophie—good lad. Reminded her of her own son, Jack. Same fire.
“Ben.”
“Eileen Margaret. This terror’s my granddaughter.”
“Why’s she ‘terror’?”
“Cos it’s *daft* not to see why rules exist. Right, Sophie?”
“So nothing bad happens…” Sophie mumbled.
*Mum’ll be fuming.*
“Fancy a cuppa?” Eileen studied Ben—faded tee, shorts riding up, sandals barely holding on. Unkempt. Her chest ached. *Just like Jack at that age.*
“Nah, best be off.”
“Well, thank you. For Sophie *and* this wee chap.” She scooped the kitten up by the scruff, making Sophie yelp.
“*As Max adjusted his graduation cap, the kitten—now a plump, contented cat named Sir Wrinkles—purred from Sophie’s arms, its golden eyes blinking up at him with the same quiet trust that had started it all.
