Fall, winter, spring: Catkin runs rampant with his spiritual cousins, feral pets left behind when vacation’s over and they’re not kittens anymore. They’re always hungry. So is he, but squirrels and garbage spills don’t yield what he needs.

Things finally pick up toward the end of May. Catkin walks the resort in human form, then, rangy at first but growing sleeker by the hour. His eyes are strange. His grin is cruel and young.

June is coming. Soon he’ll feast on wine coolers and boredom, skinny joints and skinned knuckles; taut boys, and tan girls in white tennis dresses, eager to apoplex Dad.