"Don't squat under a tree in a thunderstorm!"
My umbrella smacks down over the two of us and a tiny gray head that looks like it should be in a bakery window, not soaked and trembling under cedar needles.
"Who are you calling squat—" she snaps, voice thin with cold and embarrassment. Then she notices my hand on the umbrella's handle and freezes. "Oh. Kingston."
"Yeah." I shove the umbrella forward. "Move."
Her arms are full of a takeaway bakery box and a phone wrapped in a plastic bag. The phone is cracked, glass spiderwebbed across the screen. The box has frosting smeared on the corner; a cupcake tilts inside. The kitten mews and presses against her wrist.
"That's mine," she says, glancing at the kitten. "I can't leave it."
"You almost left it under a tree in a thunderstorm." My fingers tighten on the umbrella. "We don't do that."
She stares at me like I'm serious about the weather. She is serious. That's the weird thing. "It was only raining when I left—"
"Enough." I step closer, rain splattering the hem of my jacket. "Come with me."
"I can walk."
"Not in flip-flops, you can't." I point at the soaked sandals. "And that phone is dead. You need shelter before you learn how to swim with a pastry box."
"I don't need help from the campus golden boy."
"University's golden boy," I correct. "Different title."
She refuses to
