In rural Alabama, there was a gas station that stayed open all night, its neon sign buzzing against the dark. Beneath the flickering light, a black cat with a white patch on his chest sat on the curb, watching cars come and go.
The cashiers called him “Midnight.” Truckers called him “Buddy.” He answered to both, as long as food followed.
He had no collar, no microchip, no home except the thin strip of concrete between the pumps and the parking lot. The staff left out a bowl of kibble and a water dish near the dumpster. Midnight survived on scraps, attention, and the occasional cautious stroke from a child’s tentative hand.
One stormy evening, a rescue volunteer named Claire stopped for gas. As she pumped, she felt eyes on her and turned to see Midnight, coat soaked, blinking slowly.
“You again,” the cashier said from the doorway. “That cat’s been here months. We been feedin’ him, but he ain’t got nobody.”
Claire crouched and held out her hand. Midnight approached, tail low but curious. When she scratched behind his ears, he closed his eyes, leaning into the touch like he’d been waiting his whole life.
“You want to come with me?” she murmured. She had a spare carrier in her trunk, because rescue people always do. With a little coaxing and a lot of patience, Midnight went inside.
The gas station felt strangely quiet when his soft form disappeared into the car. The cashier watched them drive away, feeling a pang of something—loss, maybe, or just the absence of a small, constant presence.
At the rescue, they tested Midnight. He was positive for FIV and had a heart murmur. “He might have a few good years,” the vet said, “with the right care. He’ll need an indoor-only home.”
They listed him on their website: “Special boy with a big heart and some medical needs. Loves people, loves sitting in laps.”
Weeks passed. People scrolled past his profile, pausing on kittens and perfectly healthy cats instead. Midnight watched the door of the cat room, perking up at every sound of footsteps.
Claire visited when she could, sitting with him on a worn blanket. He climbed into her lap immediately, as if afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t hold her there.
“I’m trying, okay?” she whispered. “We just need the right person.”
Months went by. Midnight’s breathing grew a little heavier. His naps stretched longer. One evening, Claire arrived to find his cage empty, a folded blanket in its place.
The staff told her he’d gone into heart failure that afternoon. They’d held him as he went, whispering his name, telling him he was loved.
Claire drove back to that gas station that night. The neon buzzed the same way, but the curb was empty. The cashier stepped outside, wiping his hands. “He find a home?” he asked.
Claire hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah,” she said softly. “He did.”
The cashier smiled, satisfied. “Good. He was a good cat.”
No one there ever knew that Midnight’s “home” was just a room in a rescue and a series of borrowed laps. But for a while, that was enough to make him purr.
