…Ruh clearly did not want to be Zahir’s first CoffeeKitty conference.

Ruh had a cup that was mostly lactose-free whipped cream, some chocolate chips, and maybe chai for added moisture. Zahir had a cappuccino. Garrett Butler of the Mangoes had a mango smoothie he was forced to pay full price for.

Ruh was plopped on the table with zero desire to be a person, still protected by Mr. Butler from stray radio waves that did nothing but broadcast distress. The same orange-furred man claimed he was not a cat while working for a human staffing-trafficking organization that apparently required him to say this daily, loudly, and frequently, between distress signals that continued even through Fischadler’s snoring.

“This is abuse,” Ruh said simply. “No one can live like this. Trying to figure out whose tech and clearances align just right to tune him out, or fighting over who gets to spend time with Mango just to block him out, or being forced to humiliate Leto with my proximity so we don’t go insane from our implants. It’s untenable.”

Mango, aka Dr. Garrett John Butler, raised his left hand to reveal deep puncture wounds on his index finger.

“I was carrying you,” he complained. “I said, ‘At least I know you finally trust me,’ and you bit me almost as hard as Bird did when I suggested making more kittens to replace his lost daughter.”

Zahir went silent and blinked owlishly at his best friend, who was still petting Ruh absentmindedly, apparently unable to distinguish warning growls from affectionate purring. It was then Zahir realized that no one in the history of Alaraf, outside of himself and one tiny angry cat with a metal fang, had ever corrected Mango on anything that mattered.

Almost every prior attempt simply tossed him on the rocks at the first sign of displeasure, necessitating his adoption by a clowder of maladaptive Persians and their Murīd, hiding in an equally maladaptive literary pocket dimension on the grounds of abusive college campuses their real-life Murshīd failed to leave.

“I think we can only work on the problems Allah has given us the real-life tools to address,” Zahir said at last. “Right now, I don’t hear a radio. I hear my best friend trying his best to navigate a new interpersonal relationship with someone who does not idolize him.”

Ruh’s fur stood fully at attention, spine arched to Halloween-cat proportions, ears flattened nearly out of sight.

“Don’t take it personally,” Ruh hissed. “None of my direct students are dead yet, but they sure as fuck would be if I let them get influenced by your MEMES.”

He was referring to the Middle Eastern mango supplier for Butler’s YouTube videos, now titled The Mango Madrassa after a copyright claim from London destroyed Mr. Butler’s Fiqh & Tidy.

“Don’t listen to Ruh,” Butler said jovially. “We’ve been co-leading a mysticism Discord for at least two years. All foxes. Star Wars theme. I’m a Grey Jedi tracking an androgynous Sith Lord torn between a benevolent mentor exiled to an academic enslavement planet that doesn’t believe in the Force, or the guy tortured on the Jedi High Council and barred from retiring, attended only by Gungans of the Jar Jar Binks line. All our students are hibernating now. It’s winter.”

Zahir sipped his coffee loudly, choosing temporary silence.

“Mango showed up with five profiles and Fischadler to prove I was ‘a real teacher of the Jedi Order,’” Ruh continued. “I’m there typing in caps: WTF NO. I TEACH KHORASANI SUFISM. I HAVE A MOLANA FROM TEHRAN.

“Then Mango, under an alias, Mr. Muslim Himself, tells me, ‘We don’t want to get too religious with the Westerners.’ So I bit him.”

“Her-his-their teeth are metal, by the way,” said the defeated mango-flavored catman.

Zahir sipped again.

“Whom has Bayat ties to whom, and how?” Zahir asked.

“He’s my inheritor,” Ruh sighed. “Not authority. Role-function. He’s worse than I was when I led the Ásatrú, except I never sold out.”

“Inheritor?”

“Dream logistics. In the dream, he filled the role of the dead guy we barely mention. Not replacing the dead. Replacing a function. Benevolent symbolic community leader. Mango-colored violinist.”

“I am authentic,” Mango said, as all three looked at the Mango Madrassa embroidery on his chef’s jacket.

“Garrett,” Zahir asked, “I thought you were the new Ombudsman. Why aren’t you free of the mango persona?”

“Because these stories reflect real life,” Garrett replied primly. “We’re still obligated to give MENA lectures through the end of the month while wearing sponsored materials. My maqam remains high enough to break even fifth walls.”

“I can’t believe we’re reduced to talking as cats,” Ruh muttered. “If we send Mango to London, the radio stops one way or another.”

“I refuse to kill anybody.”

“Never suggested it. You’d suck at wetwork anyway,” Ruh replied. “Offer them the Mango Madrassa in exchange for Fischadler. If that fails, hug him to disable the radio. Or free him. Whatever. I’m tired.”

Zahir listened without interruption, his coffee long finished. When Ruh finally stopped, the café returned in small, ordinary sounds: a cup set down too hard, a chair scraping tile, the espresso machine coughing awake.

“This is still abuse,” Zahir said calmly. “But it is not abuse we can fix today.”

Ruh’s tail flicked once. His fur remained raised, but his spine relaxed by a fraction.

“We cannot out-engineer every bad system,” Zahir continued. “And we are not required to sacrifice ourselves trying. Allah does not ask us to solve what He has not placed within our reach.”

Mango nodded slowly. He adjusted his bag strap, the mango embroidery suddenly less ridiculous.

“Then what do we do?” he asked.

“We do what is possible,” Zahir said, standing. “We teach where we are allowed. We protect whom we can reach. We do not confuse endurance with obedience, nor suffering with virtue.”

When Mango lifted Ruh again, the metal fang pressed cool against his collarbone. There was no bite.

Outside, the radio noise did not stop. It rarely did.

But at the table near the café fountain, for the length of one cup of coffee, it no longer dictated what was real.

That would have to be enough for today.
—