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Description
He owned a white cat who liked to sleep all day wherever it suited him. The cat was subject to none, except what interested him. What interested him: canned food, the left windowsill during daybreak, the kitchen sink, and his owner. The owner was old, very old, with wrinkly skin and glasses that made his eyes look too big. He didn't wear his clothes. His clothes rather hung on his limbs, which were shriveled and gangly like driftwood. They lived in a nice house near the street. It was white with green roofs and a chimney. It was two stories tall with two windows in the front. That's where the cat's favorite windowsill was.
      The house was always quiet, except when the cat was hungry. Then the halls would fill with the sound of mewling and scratching at the kitchen closet. He knew his food was in there. When he was full, the cat stopped mewling and went upstairs to the windowsill or to the old man's lap, where he would rest for hours while the man sat or read. The man owned two imposing bookcases worth of books, practically the epicenter of his earthly wealth. He owned mostly old fiction from the 20th century, but he also owned a lot of nonfiction books and a couple encyclopedias.
       The rest of the house was sparsely furnished, accommodated for simple living. Compared to the rest of the house, the bookcases seemed out of place, like remnants of a previous life or flights of fancy that were not easily displaced. He had nothing else, besides a couch, a bed, a fridge, a table, some chairs, a couple of carpets, and a painting in his room. It was a reproduction of Absinthe by Edgar Degas.
      The man rarely deviated from his main schedule. He would get up early or late, it didn't matter anymore, and eat breakfast. He would feed the cat and then sit  to read. In the afternoon, he would eat lunch and either stay in or go out on errands. Then he would have dinner and sit before going to bed early. The cat would sleep at either his feet or somewhere else in his room. It was the same schedule every day, with no real changes except minor details. It was old, rusting clockwork.
      One morning, the man was finishing lunch and rising from the table when he heard a knock at the door. He didn't acknowledge it until the knocking persisted and became louder. Then he walked slowly to the door while the cat watched from the couch. He opened the door and faced a small boy with ketchup stains on his shirt. He didn't look any older than seven.
      "A-a-are you a troll?" the boy asked meekly.
      The man paused, surprised by both the boy and the question.
      "What makes you think that?" he responded in a raspy voice, like echoes in a mausoleum.
      "My fh-fh-friend Danny told me you're a troll, a-a-and that if I talked to you, he'd gi-give me five dollars." He held up his hand to show four thin fingers and a stubby thumb.
      The man looked down and couldn't help but smile. A troll, he thought, am I really that old? He looked at his hand absently, examined all the little ripples and dark spots, and clenched it to hear his knuckles crack. Then he looked at the boy.
      "What makes Danny think I'm a troll?" he asked earnestly.
      "H-he s-s-says you're super old. Like a hundred and ten!" This time, he held up both his hands up with fingers outstretched.
      The old man looked back up and scanned the street across from his house. There was no sight of any "Danny" person, just sidewalks and other houses. "Interesting," the man said. "Very interesting…"
      "What?" the boy asked.
      "I'm sorry?"
      "What's so 'interesting'? Are you a t-t-troll or not?" He was nervous. In some small part of his mind, he feared for his life.
      The old man began to chuckle, which caused the boy to back away. Before he got too far, the old man reached out limply. "It's okay, boy. I'm not a troll. I'm not that old." He started chuckling again, which made his chest vibrate. The boy stopped backing away and came forward again.
      "B-b-but Danny t-to-t-told me you're a troll. He wouldn't lie to me!"
      Smiling so wide that his skin wrinkled more than before, the old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder and welcomed him inside. "Here boy. Have a seat. Do you drink water.?"
      The boy nodded and sat on the couch. The cat inched away and watched from the other end, following the boy's every movement. The man returned with a glass and sat down. The cat took its place in his lap and began to nuzzle his hand. "Do you have a name, boy?" the man asked.
      "Walker… Mr."
      More chuckles. The cat watched him chuckle. It had never seen him chuckle so much. "Walker, eh? I knew a Walker once, when I was about your age. He lived right next door." The man pointed vaguely in the other direction. "We would play marbles and fight in wars. We were America's greatest hope, you know?" He was talking to the boy and no one at the same time. The boy sipped his water without responding while looking at the cat. He reached out to pet it but it shrunk from his hand.
      "Do you know about World War II, Walker?"
      The boy nodded again, sipping some more water.
      "I was in World War II, Walker. Helped fight the Japanese in the Pacific." His frail body had taken on a glow of pride, which had lain buried inside for so many years. "We lost a lot of good men in that war, including Walker. He got shot, right through the heart!" The old man pointed at the boy's chest while the boy shuddered and put his water down.
      "Was it scary?" the boy asked.
      "Scary? Sort of. It was mostly a lot of waiting. I was nearly captured once though. That's how Walker died… saving my ass." The man looked at Walker in embarrassment, but the boy registered no emotion. The old man decided to continue.
      "It was a rusty bunker near the shore, that's where they had me. They kept talking to me, but I couldn't understand 'em." He paused a second to collect his thoughts. He looked at the boy, who was looking down at his glass.
      "It looks like you're glass is half empty," the old man said.
      "No, sir. It's half full."
      The man smiled again, appreciating the irony.
      "So anyway, here I am stuck in a bunker, when there's all this rabb-"
      "-You own a lot of books," the boy said.
      Both the boy and the man looked at the man's bookcases near the entrance to the kitchen. He looked back at the boy, folding his hands over each other.
      "Yes I do. Do you read many books, Walker?"
      The boy shook his head.
      "Why don't you have a look around," the man said. "I'm a little thirsty myself." He struggled up from the couch while the boy watched his every move. The cat was fairly annoyed at being ousted. He ran upstairs while the boy watched him go. "I'll be right back."
      The boy stood up to examine the bookcase. He didn't recognize any of the titles, but they all sounded vaguely familiar.
      "Excuse me, Mr.?" the boy asked.
      "What is it?" the old man said.
      "Who's Gatsby? Why's he so great?"
      "Gatsby's a classic. You'll read it in high school someday."
      "Um, Mr.?"
      "Yes?" the old man said. He was coming back into the room with a glass of water.
      "Does the Catcher in the Rye play baseball?"
      "No, it's a song. Or Holden thinks it's a song anyway."
      "Holden?"
      "A guy in the book."
      "Well, who is the bell tolling for? Is Voltaire a word for electricity?"
      "The bell is tolling for a guy named Robert Jordan, and Voltaire was a Frenchman." The old man liked talking about his books. It reminded him of what he owned. His mind was still kicking, but it was getting dusty. The man sat down again, expecting the boy to sit as well.
      "Do you have a bathroom?" the boy said.
      "In the hallway left of the front door," the old man said pointing. He settled back and sipped his water.
      The boy walked to the hallway but he didn't go to the bathroom. Instead he slinked up a pair of stairs. He wanted to see the cat. His friend Danny owned a cat he really liked, named Gerald. He was grey and fluffy. The boy looked around the upstairs for the cat. There were only four rooms upstairs: a bathroom, a bedroom, a guest bedroom, and a storage room. The boy found the cat in the storage room, resting on the windowsill. It was sunny out, which cast shadows along the floor. The boy crept up slowly as the cat eyed him. He tentatively reached out his hand, only for the cat to rise and run for the door. The boy scrambled after him and chased him into the bedroom. The cat ducked under the bed where the boy couldn't reach him. Resigned, the boy began looking around the room. There was one dresser with a mirror and a bed which seemed too big for one person. On a bedside table there was a framed picture. There were two people, one of whom was the old man. The other person was an old woman who looked as ancient as the old man. The boy tried getting at the cat again before heading downstairs. The old man hadn't moved since he left.
      "My, my, you took a long time. Is everything all right?" the old man asked.
      "I'm okay. I saw your cat. What's his name?" the boy asked.
      "The cat? The cat's name is David, like in the Bible story."
      "I know about David," the boy said. "He fought a big guy with just a rock."
      "Yes, Golia-"
      "Who's the lady in the picture?" the boy said.
      "Which picture? You mean the painting upstairs?" the man said.
      "No, I mean the photo of you and a lady. Who is she?"
      The old man paused, deep in thought. A sort of change had come over him. He no longer glowed with pride like when he was talking about his war service. He became sullen and his brows drooped. The wrinkles begot wrinkles and his eyes misted over. He struggled to stand up out of his couch. He gazed absently at a clock above the couch.
      "I think it's time for you to get home, young man. You can go get your five dollars from your friend," the old man said.
      "But-"
      "I don't want to keep you. You ought to get home." He motioned towards the door, half dismissively and half despondently. With no other option, the boy went to the front door, opened it, and walked out, closing it behind him. Upstairs, there was a little patter of feet as the cat descended the stairs. He came into the living room and began to mewl. The old man stood and walked to the kitchen closet to feed the cat. He looked like he was folding in on himself like a collapsed building.
      Later that night, the old man sat at his bedside table, cradling the picture like a precious artifact. His eyes were red and swollen. He was crying silently, his chest rising and falling softly with his sobs. The cat sat at the end of the bed, curled up and unconcerned. He looked over to the cat and rubbed it behind the ears. It awoke and started rubbing its head against his hand. He smiled briefly before looking at the picture. He looked at his bed, which was far too big for one person. He stood up to change into his pajamas and used the bathroom. In the bathroom, there was the sound of a medicine cabinet opening and closing and the light rattle of pills. The old man returned to the bed and folded the covers over himself.
      The next morning, if you were close enough to the house, you could hear the cat mewling. It would be a while before the cat was fed.

Description
He owned a white cat who liked to sleep all day wherever it suited him. The cat was subject to none, except what interested him. What interested him: canned food, the left windowsill during daybreak, the kitchen sink, and his owner. The owner was old, very old, with wrinkly skin and glasses that made his eyes look too big. He didn't wear his clothes. His clothes rather hung on his limbs, which were shriveled and gangly like driftwood. They lived in a nice house near the street. It was white with green roofs and a chimney. It was two stories tall with two windows in the front. That's where the cat's favorite windowsill was.
      The house was always quiet, except when the cat was hungry. Then the halls would fill with the sound of mewling and scratching at the kitchen closet. He knew his food was in there. When he was full, the cat stopped mewling and went upstairs to the windowsill or to the old man's lap, where he would rest for hours while the man sat or read. The man owned two imposing bookcases worth of books, practically the epicenter of his earthly wealth. He owned mostly old fiction from the 20th century, but he also owned a lot of nonfiction books and a couple encyclopedias.
       The rest of the house was sparsely furnished, accommodated for simple living. Compared to the rest of the house, the bookcases seemed out of place, like remnants of a previous life or flights of fancy that were not easily displaced. He had nothing else, besides a couch, a bed, a fridge, a table, some chairs, a couple of carpets, and a painting in his room. It was a reproduction of Absinthe by Edgar Degas.
      The man rarely deviated from his main schedule. He would get up early or late, it didn't matter anymore, and eat breakfast. He would feed the cat and then sit  to read. In the afternoon, he would eat lunch and either stay in or go out on errands. Then he would have dinner and sit before going to bed early. The cat would sleep at either his feet or somewhere else in his room. It was the same schedule every day, with no real changes except minor details. It was old, rusting clockwork.
      One morning, the man was finishing lunch and rising from the table when he heard a knock at the door. He didn't acknowledge it until the knocking persisted and became louder. Then he walked slowly to the door while the cat watched from the couch. He opened the door and faced a small boy with ketchup stains on his shirt. He didn't look any older than seven.
      "A-a-are you a troll?" the boy asked meekly.
      The man paused, surprised by both the boy and the question.
      "What makes you think that?" he responded in a raspy voice, like echoes in a mausoleum.
      "My fh-fh-friend Danny told me you're a troll, a-a-and that if I talked to you, he'd gi-give me five dollars." He held up his hand to show four thin fingers and a stubby thumb.
      The man looked down and couldn't help but smile. A troll, he thought, am I really that old? He looked at his hand absently, examined all the little ripples and dark spots, and clenched it to hear his knuckles crack. Then he looked at the boy.
      "What makes Danny think I'm a troll?" he asked earnestly.
      "H-he s-s-says you're super old. Like a hundred and ten!" This time, he held up both his hands up with fingers outstretched.
      The old man looked back up and scanned the street across from his house. There was no sight of any "Danny" person, just sidewalks and other houses. "Interesting," the man said. "Very interesting…"
      "What?" the boy asked.
      "I'm sorry?"
      "What's so 'interesting'? Are you a t-t-troll or not?" He was nervous. In some small part of his mind, he feared for his life.
      The old man began to chuckle, which caused the boy to back away. Before he got too far, the old man reached out limply. "It's okay, boy. I'm not a troll. I'm not that old." He started chuckling again, which made his chest vibrate. The boy stopped backing away and came forward again.
      "B-b-but Danny t-to-t-told me you're a troll. He wouldn't lie to me!"
      Smiling so wide that his skin wrinkled more than before, the old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder and welcomed him inside. "Here boy. Have a seat. Do you drink water.?"
      The boy nodded and sat on the couch. The cat inched away and watched from the other end, following the boy's every movement. The man returned with a glass and sat down. The cat took its place in his lap and began to nuzzle his hand. "Do you have a name, boy?" the man asked.
      "Walker… Mr."
      More chuckles. The cat watched him chuckle. It had never seen him chuckle so much. "Walker, eh? I knew a Walker once, when I was about your age. He lived right next door." The man pointed vaguely in the other direction. "We would play marbles and fight in wars. We were America's greatest hope, you know?" He was talking to the boy and no one at the same time. The boy sipped his water without responding while looking at the cat. He reached out to pet it but it shrunk from his hand.
      "Do you know about World War II, Walker?"
      The boy nodded again, sipping some more water.
      "I was in World War II, Walker. Helped fight the Japanese in the Pacific." His frail body had taken on a glow of pride, which had lain buried inside for so many years. "We lost a lot of good men in that war, including Walker. He got shot, right through the heart!" The old man pointed at the boy's chest while the boy shuddered and put his water down.
      "Was it scary?" the boy asked.
      "Scary? Sort of. It was mostly a lot of waiting. I was nearly captured once though. That's how Walker died… saving my ass." The man looked at Walker in embarrassment, but the boy registered no emotion. The old man decided to continue.
      "It was a rusty bunker near the shore, that's where they had me. They kept talking to me, but I couldn't understand 'em." He paused a second to collect his thoughts. He looked at the boy, who was looking down at his glass.
      "It looks like you're glass is half empty," the old man said.
      "No, sir. It's half full."
      The man smiled again, appreciating the irony.
      "So anyway, here I am stuck in a bunker, when there's all this rabb-"
      "-You own a lot of books," the boy said.
      Both the boy and the man looked at the man's bookcases near the entrance to the kitchen. He looked back at the boy, folding his hands over each other.
      "Yes I do. Do you read many books, Walker?"
      The boy shook his head.
      "Why don't you have a look around," the man said. "I'm a little thirsty myself." He struggled up from the couch while the boy watched his every move. The cat was fairly annoyed at being ousted. He ran upstairs while the boy watched him go. "I'll be right back."
      The boy stood up to examine the bookcase. He didn't recognize any of the titles, but they all sounded vaguely familiar.
      "Excuse me, Mr.?" the boy asked.
      "What is it?" the old man said.
      "Who's Gatsby? Why's he so great?"
      "Gatsby's a classic. You'll read it in high school someday."
      "Um, Mr.?"
      "Yes?" the old man said. He was coming back into the room with a glass of water.
      "Does the Catcher in the Rye play baseball?"
      "No, it's a song. Or Holden thinks it's a song anyway."
      "Holden?"
      "A guy in the book."
      "Well, who is the bell tolling for? Is Voltaire a word for electricity?"
      "The bell is tolling for a guy named Robert Jordan, and Voltaire was a Frenchman." The old man liked talking about his books. It reminded him of what he owned. His mind was still kicking, but it was getting dusty. The man sat down again, expecting the boy to sit as well.
      "Do you have a bathroom?" the boy said.
      "In the hallway left of the front door," the old man said pointing. He settled back and sipped his water.
      The boy walked to the hallway but he didn't go to the bathroom. Instead he slinked up a pair of stairs. He wanted to see the cat. His friend Danny owned a cat he really liked, named Gerald. He was grey and fluffy. The boy looked around the upstairs for the cat. There were only four rooms upstairs: a bathroom, a bedroom, a guest bedroom, and a storage room. The boy found the cat in the storage room, resting on the windowsill. It was sunny out, which cast shadows along the floor. The boy crept up slowly as the cat eyed him. He tentatively reached out his hand, only for the cat to rise and run for the door. The boy scrambled after him and chased him into the bedroom. The cat ducked under the bed where the boy couldn't reach him. Resigned, the boy began looking around the room. There was one dresser with a mirror and a bed which seemed too big for one person. On a bedside table there was a framed picture. There were two people, one of whom was the old man. The other person was an old woman who looked as ancient as the old man. The boy tried getting at the cat again before heading downstairs. The old man hadn't moved since he left.
      "My, my, you took a long time. Is everything all right?" the old man asked.
      "I'm okay. I saw your cat. What's his name?" the boy asked.
      "The cat? The cat's name is David, like in the Bible story."
      "I know about David," the boy said. "He fought a big guy with just a rock."
      "Yes, Golia-"
      "Who's the lady in the picture?" the boy said.
      "Which picture? You mean the painting upstairs?" the man said.
      "No, I mean the photo of you and a lady. Who is she?"
      The old man paused, deep in thought. A sort of change had come over him. He no longer glowed with pride like when he was talking about his war service. He became sullen and his brows drooped. The wrinkles begot wrinkles and his eyes misted over. He struggled to stand up out of his couch. He gazed absently at a clock above the couch.
      "I think it's time for you to get home, young man. You can go get your five dollars from your friend," the old man said.
      "But-"
      "I don't want to keep you. You ought to get home." He motioned towards the door, half dismissively and half despondently. With no other option, the boy went to the front door, opened it, and walked out, closing it behind him. Upstairs, there was a little patter of feet as the cat descended the stairs. He came into the living room and began to mewl. The old man stood and walked to the kitchen closet to feed the cat. He looked like he was folding in on himself like a collapsed building.
      Later that night, the old man sat at his bedside table, cradling the picture like a precious artifact. His eyes were red and swollen. He was crying silently, his chest rising and falling softly with his sobs. The cat sat at the end of the bed, curled up and unconcerned. He looked over to the cat and rubbed it behind the ears. It awoke and started rubbing its head against his hand. He smiled briefly before looking at the picture. He looked at his bed, which was far too big for one person. He stood up to change into his pajamas and used the bathroom. In the bathroom, there was the sound of a medicine cabinet opening and closing and the light rattle of pills. The old man returned to the bed and folded the covers over himself.
      The next morning, if you were close enough to the house, you could hear the cat mewling. It would be a while before the cat was fed.