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Stella carried her yarn bag up six flights of stairs, across the tenth floor apartments, and up two fire escapes every morning before work. She sat on the building's air conditioning unit, poured herself a cup of black coffee from her late husband's dented thermos, and waited for the sun to appear over a landscape of high rises.

The cinnamon bear never started to hook before the sun came up. Until the rays blazed over the square rooftops, her bag stayed tightly zippered, her work put away. She sipped her coffee, watched for the sun and waited, not for the warmth or the light, however.

Stella waited for the raccoon.

#

The first time they'd met, she'd been working on a baby blanket as a gift for an expecting co-worker. Her hook flashed green in the light that morning, and her pink yarn twisted and fluffed into a yard and a half of comforting warmth suitable for any newborn cub.

At first, she'd mistaken the soft sniffling sound for a flaw in the cooling system. At least, until he'd moved. His steely fur gleamed despite the filth of the corner he'd curled up in, and his black mask couldn't hide how long he'd been crying.

Stella had enough history of her own not to pry. She'd poured him some coffee and waited two more weeks for him to talk about it.

#

Today, she heard his claws on the metal ladder and pulled a newly begun project from the bag. She lay her work across her lap, smoothed the colors with gentle paws, and then unscrewed the top of the thermos just as he reached the roof.

"Morning, my love." He grinned, flashed needle-white teeth and skipped to their makeshift bench.

"Good morning. Coffee?"

"Always." He pulled a chipped mug from his bag and held it out for her. "Is that a scarf?"

"Afghan." Stella put the thermos away and took up her hook. The raccoon had on a fashionable green suit. He'd smoothed his hair back and used liner to accentuate his mask. "Hot date this afternoon?"

"No." His voice crackled. A fierce light sparked in his eyes. "I did this for me today."

Stella nodded and wrapped three loops around her hook. Chain up and begin.

#

His boyfriend had a mean streak. The infidelity alone would have caused enough damage, but this cat liked to be cruel about it. He liked to get caught, to fight his way back in by twisting the situation around until he looked like the victim.

When the raccoon finally opened up to her, Stella recognized the situation, marking the behavioral patterns as immediately familiar. In the four months she'd been drinking her morning coffee with her new friend, he'd broken up and reunited at least five times. Each round ate at him a little, brought his weight down until his ribs showed, and dimmed the fire and enthusiasm that was his true nature.

#

"Look what I did." He held his work aloft for her, eager for praise. "I think I've got it now."

"Let me see." Stella took the chain he'd made and held it up to the light. Chains were the easy part, but she examined it just the same, squinted and nodded. "Looks good."

The raccoon beamed and took it back with steady hands.

"I think you're ready to learn single crochet."

"Ooo, fancy."

She laughed and stitched a few more triples while he sipped his coffee and fiddled with the first chain he'd made all on his own. When his eyes darkened, Stella rested her work in her lap. "You ready?"

"Sure." He picked up his hook, put it down again and stared out at the sun. "I read his mail again."

"Hmm." Two wraps around and through the loop. "And?"

"He says it's nothing. They're just friends and I'm crazy and jealous."

"That's what he said last time." Yarn over and back through again.

"Yeah." He sighed, twisted the chain in his paws. "I know."

"If he can keep you questioning yourself, it takes the focus off his behavior."

"Yeah."

#

They'd met on the roof for two months before she suggested he learn to crochet. He laughed at first, but Stella had caught him watching her hands enough to know he'd take it up eventually.

"I can't afford yarn," he'd argued.

"I have all the yarn we'll need." She did. If they'd hooked forever and a day, Stella had enough.

It still took him another month to bring it up again. She'd given him a hook and a ball of cotton and they'd started making chains.

#

"It's just the same as chaining but with more steps. Look." Stella took his hook and went through the steps again. "Poke it through here, wrap it over and pull it back, but only through the work. Then you do it again on this side."

"I got it." He took the work back, got the first half right and then stalled on her. "What now?"

"Yarn over."

"Like this?"

"And then through both loops. Just like that. See?"

"I'll never remember this at home."

"You will."

"He'll never stop cheating, will he?"

"Not likely, kiddo." Stella stitched and sipped her coffee and knew better than to tell him what to do. "There, you got that one on your own just fine."

"I did it." His eyes fired, sparked. Only watered a little now.

"Yup."

#

After they'd started lessons, he opened up even more. Stella listened and bit her tongue, but she didn't lie to him either. She liked the kid too much for that. When he cried, she remembered too much, and so when he asked her, she gave him the advice she'd wished someone had given her and knew full well he wouldn't take it.

"I'm leaving for good this time."

"Good."

"I deserve better. "

"Yes, you do."

They never talked about the reconciliations. The raccoon went back to his cat, and the old bear poured him coffee and didn't have to ask why.

#

"I'm making a mess now." He held up what had started as neat single crochet and now looked like a lumpy tangle.

"Whoops." Stella smiled and shook her head. "Best to pull that out and start over."

"I suck at this." His paws pulled on the yarn, unraveled it one awkward stitch at a time.

"Did I ever tell you about the wolverine I dated?"

"The cheating bastard?"

"No. That's the one I married." With the wolverine, she'd managed to dodge that bullet.

"Was he sexy?"

"Oh yes." Stella nodded, remembered broad shoulders and sharp, strong fingers. "He also put a bruise on me the size of that ball of cotton you're holding."

"You kick him to the curb?" The black mask fixed on her now. The paws stilled.

"Sure I did." Stella shrugged and wrapped three times over her hook. "Five years later."

#

After what she thought of as, The Big Shame, she'd told everyone how she'd slept on one of her hooks and woke up with the bruise. Even to her ears, it sounded thin, lame, and obvious. No one questioned her, though.

Not one person asked how a crochet hook could leave a bruise that big.

#

"I'm never going to get this right." The raccoon lifted his chain to the sun and shook his head.

"It takes awhile."

"It's hopeless." He sighed, but he also picked up his hook, poked it through the work and started again.

"You'll get it," Stella encouraged. Eventually, he would, too.

In a perfect world, she'd be able to save him from her mistakes. He'd listen, and this time, he wouldn't go back. But Stella knew the world he lived in, and she knew the game took as long as it took.

As long as he needed.

"How's this?"

"Keep at it." She nodded. "You'll figure it out."

She wrapped her yarn, chained up, and they worked in the sun, side by side, drinking coffee and talking it out by not exactly talking about it.