Maggie first decided to rescue the cat when she saw it climb a tree in the Peterson's front yard. She could tell by it's rolling fat and stunted walk that it would never make it down on it's own. Now a cat might not seem like much in the greater scheme of things--especially the milk-fed, flea-bit, mouse-evading kind--but Maggie hoped to build up small deeds over time. The one thing she had was time.

The tricky part would be getting into the tree. Once she was there, she could grab the cat and jump down. But she wasn't as nimble as she'd been when she was alive, not that she could've got up a tree then either.

She needed a ladder, like the one Mr. Peterson used to hang Christmas lights last year. That's what she'd do. She'd borrow the Peterson's ladder. Surely they wouldn't mind. She was rescuing their cat, after all. Yes, once they had their cat, they'd forget about the ladder. "Thank you for saving our cat," they'd say. "Join us for a drink," they'd say.

She'd smile and say, "I'm just glad I could help."

She shut her eyes and dreamed about heaven. She'd have to find Tim, of course, and apologize for killing him. But then the universe would be opened to her, and she could finally get out of this godforsaken street.

A car drove by, and the cat meowed. Ah, yes. The ladder. She needed a ladder. She walked to the Peterson's garage, and pulled on the handle. It didn't move. She shook it, but it still didn't budge. Then a German Shepherd began barking in the neighbor's yard.

"Shut up!" she said, but the dog continued barking. "Quiet!" she demanded. It yipped and snarled.

She picked up a landscaping rock and flung it toward the noise. She heard a yelp, then silence. Now she could think. Yes, the ladder. She needed the ladder.

She lifted the handle. This time, it cut into her hand. She kept pulling. Finally, the door bowed outward, and she slipped her foot underneath. As she did, the handle creaked and then cracked from its mounting with a violent snap.

The full weight of the door slammed onto her shoeless foot, but she couldn't feel pain and didn't really mind. She didn't even cry out. Instead, she stooped and slid her hands under the door, scraping her knuckles on the concrete in the process. But it worked. When she stood, the door crumpled open like a roll top desk.

She smiled.

Then the porch light flickered on and Mr. Peterson stuck his head out of the doorway. "Who's there?"

She looked at him. "Your cat's stuck," she explained.

He said nothing, but walked toward her with his robe open and his boxer shorts flapping. The yellow polka dots reminded her of smiley faces.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll get it."

He flashed a light in her face but seemed to look through her to the damaged door. His eyes widened. Then he stumbled backward toward the house, falling twice.

"I'll take care of it!" she called after him.

He seemed upset. What if he called the police? She'd have to hurry. Once she saved the cat, he'd understand. Yes, the cat. A light came on in the neighbor's yard, casting pretty shadows. Then the cat meowed.

Ah, the ladder. She needed the ladder. There it was! Crammed between a lawn mower and exercise bike, on the other side of the SUV.

Someone screamed. More lights came on.

She shoved the SUV aside. Metal crunched and tires smoked, filling the garage with the smell of burnt rubber but clearing a path to the ladder. She needed that ladder.

She stepped over the lawn mower, grabbed her prize, and then lumbered toward the tree while the ladder clanged behind her. Then she propped it against the trunk and climbed.

Where was that cat? She saw only shadows.

Meow.

Where did that come from?

Sirens blared in the distance.

Then one of the shadows moved, and she lunged after it. She clasped her hand, and the cat screeched. She'd grabbed its tail. She smiled, then jumped to the ground. The cat tried to hang onto a branch, but she drug it along with her. Leaves and bark fell onto her face.

The sirens grew louder.

She threw the cat over her shoulder, and tromped toward the house. Once there, she rang the doorbell and glanced at the neighbor crying over his dog. She'd have to make up for that. Flashing lights reflected off the house, and lit up the night.

She knocked on the door. No response. She knocked again.

Men yelled, tires squealed, and police cars screeched to a stop. She punched the door. Wood shattered.

"Freeze!"

She faced the street and held up the cat. It hung limp. Then a rubber bullet bounced off her shoulder. This wasn't working. She flung the cat and fled, praying that tomorrow would be better.