Keeley woke up with a mouthful of fur. She sputtered, picking pieces from her tongue. Her rescue cat, Molly, an eight-year-old fluffy flame point, shot her an affronted look for disturbing her sleep before hopping off the bed and trotting away, tail held high.
Molly had been a surprise. Keeley hadn't owned pets growing up; her father was allergic, and Aaron didn't want animals damaging his expensive furniture.
One rainy spring day during her first year of doctoral studies, Keeley heard a horrible guttural sound from a nearby storm drain while walking home from the convenience store. Peering through the slats, she saw a muddy cat—its paw trapped—and was horrified. She called the fire department; she couldn't reach the cat herself, but couldn't leave it.
She waited in the rain for fifteen minutes, ultimately nearly an hour, before a firefighter handed her the shivering, towel-wrapped cat, instructing her to take it to a vet.
The cat, revealed to be white and orange once clean, had sprained its trapped paw. The vet prescribed pain medication and requested the cat's medical history. Keeley explained she'd found the injured animal.
The vet checked for a microchip and called the number listed. The owners had moved out of state and abandoned the cat. The cat meowed pitifully, rubbing against Keeley's hands and arms. Outraged by the abandonment, Keeley told the vet to change the microchip information to her own.
The previous owners had named the cat Molly, and Keeley decided to keep the name. She bought a crate at the vet's office and carried Molly home, astonishing her roommates.
Valentina Benavente, a close friend from their undergraduate years, continued living with Keeley as they pursued their doctoral programs. They found a relatively inexpensive three-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights and added a third roommate, Jennica Stevens, an aspiring Broadway actress, to help with expenses. The three-bedroom apartment was cheaper than many two-bedroom apartments in Manhattan.
Jennica, though sarcastic, was a good roommate. Her schedule was initially erratic, but they became friends. She earned a special place in Keeley's heart for convincing their "no pets allowed" landlord to accept Molly for a $200 pet deposit.
"Keeley, you're going to be late," Jennica called from the kitchen table, jolting Keeley from her memories.
She glanced at the clock. She needed to leave immediately to catch her train! She opened a can of wet food, lacking time to measure kibble, and set it down before frantically getting dressed. Rushing out with a bagel in her mouth, her "thanks, bye" sounded more like "fanks buh." She made her train just in time.
Keeley and Valentina were both pursuing PhDs and MDs at NYU, but their schedules rarely overlapped despite both being in medical school; their specializations differed greatly.
Keeley's day consisted of classes and lab work as a paid research assistant. Valentina couldn't work due to her program and relied on her parents' financial support.
Keeley preferred the hands-on lab work to classes. Her faculty mentor, Dr. Kim, was researching gene repression for cancer treatment in rats. She loved the practical application far more than observation, and dreamed of working in a similar lab, researching cystic fibrosis. Each lab session brought her closer to her goal.
Keeley was on track to complete her PhD in three years, leaving her with a year and a half until she could find a research job. Her friend Ryan Bradley worked at PharmaGen, developing new medications—a job that made her envious.
"I expect at least an 85 on next week's test," the professor stated sternly. "This material is vital. Failure means reconsidering your career."
"Killjoy," the student beside Keeley muttered.
Keeley agreed; the professor was harsh but a good teacher. Her grades had always been good, allowing her to continue at NYU. She wasn't worried about the test; the material was straightforward. She just wished he'd lighten up.
Thinking of people who lacked levity, Aaron briefly crossed her mind before she dismissed him. He appeared less frequently over the years, a welcome change. She hadn't seen him since his unexpected New Year's Day kiss in 2007, and preferred it that way. She'd initially worried about his clinginess during visits, but three uneventful breaks had eased her concerns. He was gone, and she was living the life she wanted.
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