By 10:17 the next morning, Danny had already sweated through his only clean shirt and almost deleted Indeed off his phone out of spite.
He was scrolling through job listings with the same enthusiasm people reserve for cleaning moldy Tupperware. Nothing looked promising. Dog yoga instructor. Personal assistant for "a crypto visionary who doesn't believe in clocks." One ad said, simply: "Human needed. No questions. $18/hr."
He paused.
Tempting, but probably murder.
Then he saw it:
> HIRING: Assistant Cat Manager (no experience necessary)
Part-time. Must like cats. Must tolerate incense.
Apply in person: 2203½ Monroe St. Ask for Devin.
Danny stared at the screen. Assistant Cat Manager?
"…what the hell is a cat manager?"
The building was sandwiched between a crystal shop and a vape lounge that claimed to sell "emotional nicotine." Its sign, painted in uneven pastel brushstrokes, read: "Meowga: A Feline Wellness Experience."
Danny stood outside, skeptical.
This was not a cat café. There was no menu. No espresso machine. Just a laminated poster of a cat in downward dog pose and a dreamcatcher made of pipe cleaners.
He took a breath and stepped inside.
The smell hit him first. Sage. Litter box. And, faintly, onions?
A bell above the door jingled. Soft flute music played from an old speaker. Six cats lounged on yoga mats across the room like they'd achieved inner peace and had no intention of sharing it.
A tall, wiry guy with bleached hair and no shoes padded out from behind a curtain. He wore harem pants and a tank top that said "NAMASTE OR NAH."
"You must be... Danny," he said, like he'd known him in a past life.
"Yeah," Danny said, trying not to sneeze. "I saw the job listing."
The man nodded solemnly. "I'm Devin. Welcome to Meowga. We're not a business. We're a vibration."
"Uh-huh."
"We guide cats—and humans—through healing movement, nonverbal conversation, and occasional snack time."
Danny looked around. One of the cats was licking a disco ball. Another was asleep in a Himalayan salt lamp.
"So... what exactly would I do here?"
Devin waved his arms like a stage magician. "You'd assist me in maintaining the chi. Clean litter boxes. Feed the feline soul. Refill the treats. Manage their emotions. Be present."
"So... janitor with vibe management."
"Exactly."
Danny nodded slowly. "Does it pay actual money?"
"$15 an hour," Devin said. "Plus whatever tips you earn from humans."
"From... customers?"
"From people who come in to sit with the cats and cry."
Danny blinked. "Right."
Fifteen minutes later, he was hired. No background check. No W-2. Just a handshake and a reusable name tag that said "HELLO, MY CHAKRAS ARE OPEN."
His first task: sweep the fur off the meditation rugs and prevent Mango, the long-haired tabby with anger issues, from knocking over the kombucha bar.
Mango hissed as Danny approached.
"Same, buddy," Danny muttered.
By noon, he'd broken up a fight between two cats, spilled chia seeds all over his shoes, and nearly walked in on someone sobbing into a Maine Coon. His back hurt. His shirt was covered in fur. But weirdly... he didn't hate it.
Mrs. Beverly called just as he was refilling the lavender diffuser.
"You're not dead, right?" she asked.
"Not yet. I got a job."
"A real one?"
He hesitated. "Real adjacent."
She made a skeptical noise. "Do you need me to drop off a tuna sandwich?"
"I'm surrounded by tuna. And incense. And, I think, a cat psychic."
"You're living like a raccoon in a yoga studio."
"Thanks, Bev."
"You want to eat Sunday dinner with me and the choir ladies? They're bringing deviled eggs."
Danny smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."
She hung up without saying goodbye. She never did.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of purring, herbal teas, and trying not to inhale fur. By the end of it, Devin handed him a crumpled twenty and two coupons for "healing turmeric slushies."
"You're a natural," he said. "The cats didn't hate you."
"I'll try not to take that as a compliment," Danny replied, brushing cat litter off his jeans.
"Come back tomorrow. Mango likes you now."
Danny turned to see Mango watching him from the windowsill with slow-blinking approval. Either that or contempt. Hard to tell with cats.
As he stepped outside into the blinding heat, Danny felt something he hadn't felt in weeks.
Not victory.
Not confidence.
But... motion. Forward motion.
He still had no idea what he was doing with his life. Still broke. Still emotionally stuck in a holding pattern somewhere between "ambitious filmmaker" and "guy who gets rejected from Trader Joe's."
But now he had twenty bucks, two drink coupons, and a cat who didn't hate him.
That was something.
He walked toward the bus stop, dodging a man on stilts and a marching band for some reason.
It was Austin. It didn't need a reason.