On the floor of F.'s bedroom closet, in the corner between a heating duct and a hanging shoe bag. This was the most secluded of her sleeping spots, the one where she was least likely to be disturbed by a human or another cat. In it, she was concealed almost completely. Several times when looking for her, I'd open the door, glance around, and decide she wasn't there until I saw her paw emerge from behind a hatbox like the hand of a sleeper groping for a ringing alarm clock. I suppose that's what I was to her, a clock she didn't set and didn't know how to turn off but wasn't especially bothered by since, unlike F. or me, she never had trouble going back to sleep - never.
In the back of the car, until the night I was driving to the station to pick up F. after she'd spent the day in the city and I felt something supple and alive graze my shoulder and nearly drove into the oncoming traffic before I swung the wheel the other way and nearly drove into a ditch instead. It was Biscuit, climbing onto the headrest. When I swerved, she dropped onto the front passenger seat and looked up at me, her ears tipped forward, her upturned muzzle soft and pale in the glow of the dash. The smartest thing would have been to turn around and deposit her back at the house, but I was already late. I drove on. During the next thirty minutes, she paced along the seatbacks, explored the junk in the cargo area, and, briefly, investigated the gas and brake pedals before I kicked her away - lightly, with no more violence than I'd kick her away from the front door if I were coming in with some heavy bags of groceries, just more urgency. At some point she returned to the seat beside me and stayed there for the rest of the drive. She was calm, except for a two-or-three-mile stretch when she meowed repeatedly, maybe overwhelmed by the speed with which trees and cars and houses swept past in the dark or by the lights that shot at us from the northbound lanes, guttering in the rain. I've read that cats can't process visual information that comes at them too quickly. She quieted when I stroked her. On reaching the station, I pulled her into my lap, afraid she might otherwise bound out when I opened the door for my wife. She wasn't crazy about that. Still, she was pleased to see F. and was well behaved for most of the drive back. From then on, I always made sure to roll up the windows when I parked in the driveway.