"Help me," she said, in a tone that, if Francis had been a bit more suspicious, he might have called threatening.

The girl, despite her size, seemed strong enough to rip his coat. And Francis didn’t have the will to argue with someone so young in public—it would’ve been too low, even for him.

"And what am I supposed to do?" he asked, phrasing it in a way meant to convey: I’m useless, can’t you tell? I’m definitely not going to be helpful. It was the same self-deprecating strategy he used at the office when someone tried to saddle him with a task he didn’t feel like doing.

If such self-insulting tactics worked on adults—convincing them Francis wasn’t qualified for whatever they wanted him to do—why wouldn’t they work on a child?

"You’re the adult," the girl pointed out, unfazed by the possibility that she was dealing with someone not very bright, "so you must have resources."

"No, I really don’t."

"Then make some up."

Francis sighed heavily. Was it too late to turn around and walk toward the plaza, pretending he hadn’t seen or heard anything? The girl had let go of him, and though a couple of villagers nearby had probably witnessed the exchange, it was unlikely anyone would question him about it, right?

Still, if he left now, he’d only be proving himself as useless as he had just suggested. And that, too, was unacceptable.

"Hey! What are you doing?" the girl protested when she saw him pick up a stick from the ground. "You’re not going to...?"

"Of course not! What kind of monster do you think I am?" Francis retorted, offended she’d even consider it. "I’m going to tap some of the surrounding branches to see if he moves on his own."

"It’s a cat, not an apple."

"Didn’t you say I’m the adult with resources? Let me handle this; I know what I’m doing."

Carefully avoiding hitting the branch where Bijou was perched, Francis began maneuvering the stick in circular motions. He struck a few branches, achieving several results, none of them particularly positive.

A few loose leaves and clumps of snow fell to the ground, narrowly missing him. The gray cat hissed, annoyed by the commotion, and finally, tired of Francis’s antics, it climbed higher toward the treetop.

"Your resources are terrible," the girl declared, stating what they both already knew.

"Let me be; I’m not done yet," Francis replied defensively. "Besides, it’s the cat’s fault. It doesn’t understand the difference between up and down, so it went the wrong way."

"I don’t know, but if some weird man approached me with a stick, I’d run away too."

Francis had no comeback for that. For a moment, he considered tossing a small pebble toward the cat, just to see which part of the tree it had climbed to now that it was no longer visible from the ground. But he dismissed the idea immediately—not only would it not win him any points with the girl, but with his luck, the cat would probably intercept the projectile and somehow make it hit him in the head.

No, there was no other option. He’d have to climb.

"What one has to do for today’s youth..." he muttered under his breath, taking off his gloves and preparing for what lay ahead.

"Don’t slip, because if you do, I’m not picking you up."

Really, Francis hoped nothing would go wrong. The trunk was practically frozen—he could feel it in his hands—and he was certain that by the time this ordeal was over, he’d have countless injuries, either from the cold or from the rough surface he was now gripping to push himself upward.

Though he had grown up in the countryside, he had never climbed a tree before. This might have been unusual compared to his childhood playmates, but Francis had always preferred keeping his feet firmly on the ground.

Now, lacking any skill or finesse, he climbed cautiously. Perhaps taking more time than necessary, he carefully checked whether a branch could support his weight or if his feet were resting on a secure surface. It took him a long five minutes to climb high enough to spot the gray furball meowing curiously as it observed someone so clumsy approach its lofty perch.

Grumbling low curses, Francis made his final effort to reach Bijou.

Several times, he nearly slipped, but his survival instinct kept him practically hugging the tree. If he was going to die here, it would be from hypothermia, not from falling and cracking his skull like an idiot.

The cat took a while to let itself be grabbed—not out of aggression, but likely because it wasn’t used to strangers suddenly trying to touch it. Its first reaction when Francis reached for it was to bat at him with a paw, as if playing a game of keep-away.

It took multiple attempts before Francis finally managed to catch it. Once he did, Bijou calmed down, finally realizing this foolish human was only trying to help.

"I’ve got it!" Francis exclaimed triumphantly, in a tone he’d never admit to using in polite company, carefully watching where he placed his feet as he began descending, cat in hand. "Come closer so I can hand it to you."

"Oh, but that’s not Bijou," the girl said suddenly once she had stepped close enough to see the cat clearly in the light.

"What do you mean, it’s not? Look at it carefully! It’s the same one you were looking for—there’s no other ugly cat in this tree."

"No, it’s not him. Bijou has a darker spot on his back and one white paw. This one’s gray all over."

"Well, then what am I supposed to do with...?"

"Oh, I think Bijou must’ve gone home after all," the girl said with a smile. Without giving much thought to the fact that there was now an adult man stuck in a tree holding another cat, she turned to leave. "I’m going to go check!"

"Wait a minute!" Francis protested, trying to keep his balance—which wasn’t easy, given that one arm was occupied holding the not-Bijou. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

The girl paused just long enough to glance at him, think for about ten seconds, and shout, "Thanks, clumsy stranger!" before running off, leaving Francis alone.