Sid is honest.

Above all, that's probably the most important thing I know about him. If you've only just met him, you might assume his weird, happy-go-lucky nature makes him something of a trickster, but that's absolutely not the case. He loves to play, but he doesn't like to fool people, or get one over on them in some way. One might even say he seems morally opposed to the idea.

That kind of honesty can be equally disarming and startling. I don't think we're used to dealing with someone who doesn't lie, at least a little. Small lies, white lies, the kind we tell to spare someone's feelings, or because there's something we don't want to admit even to ourselves. He's not like that at all. If you ask a question, he'll answer, provided he knows the answer. (There are a lot of older things he says he's forgotten, but I'm inclined to believe him. The Forest makes us all forget things, and it's interesting that even he does not seem to be immune.)

It does mean the answer is sometimes things he doesn't want to say, or you might not want to hear. But even then, he'll answer. He's not "brutally" honest, though. Never that. I don't think there's a brutal bone in his body. If it's a hurtful truth, he has a way of saying it gently. Compassionately. And often, I think that is what we need to hear.

At least, it's often what I need to hear!

What's funny, though, is how subjective truth can be, especially with him. Like the first time I attempted to bake chocolate chip banana bread. I misremembered something about the recipe, and it turned out... awful, frankly. The inside didn't cook right, so it was all mushy, and there was too much salt. Because they were over when I pulled it out of the oven (and it did smell good!), Nash and Marlena both tried it out of pure politeness. Let's just say, we all agreed it was a bona fide failed attempt.

I meant to throw it out, but forgot, so it was still out on the counter when I invited Sid later that evening. He snuck a piece while I wasn't looking. (Sometimes he is absolutely a cat!) He declared it delicious, and ended up finishing off the rest of the loaf. And the thing is, I don't think he was being insincere at all - it just isn't in his nature. He's told me before that if someone makes something - actually creates it with ingredients and their own two hands - it imbues it with something special that makes it perfect to him, even if it objectively tastes terrible to the rest of us.

So a lie? No. Just a truth that's only true to somebody like Sid.

The reason I mention it is how startled I was when I realized I'd actually caught him out in a lie.

Sort of.

The rest of this journal's gonna be a little different, because I wanted to make sure I recorded everything he said, so anyone who reads it can judge for themselves. I set it up like an interview. I wrote down a few of my own questions beforehand, and then I wrote down what he said - and any conversations we had - while we were talking.

I worried this was going to annoy him, but he seemed fascinated by the process. He was very patient with me, repeating things when necessary. Thankfully, I still remember how to write Teeline shorthand too, so I can be pretty quick to jot things down when I need to be. I still wish I could use a tape recorder or something, though. It'd make interviews much easier! But of course they don't work here. Stupid electronics.

(Note to self - research phonographs.)

It didn't hurt that I made us a batch of white chocolate fudge to share. It's one of his favorites. He's pretty sharp, though, and called me out on it immediately.

Sid: This is going to be one of your hard questions, isn't it?

Me: Maybe? I hope not.

He was already on his third piece of fudge by this time, so I don't think it was so much a complaint as an observation.

Me: Okay, there was something you said that I keep thinking about, and I wanted to see what you had to say about it. Is that all right?

Sid: Of course!

Me: When you bring someone here, it's because they were right on the edge of death. If they decide they want you to send them back, you say you can put them back safe, right? If it's a disease, they're cured, and if they were hurt, they're healed and out of harm's way.

Sid: Right.

Fourth piece. I should've made more.

Me: I've heard you say that you can't "feel" someone after you send them back, though. How do you know they're safe?

I only caught his nervous tail flick because I was looking for it. He went pretty quiet at this point, with his brow all furrowed and his ears back. When I asked if he was uncomfortable with the question, he reached over and grabbed my top set of hands. Kinda made it hard to write anything down! I remember his words, though, clear as day. "You can always ask me anything, Aubie," he said. "I don't ever want you to stop being curious."

Even so, it was a little while before I extricated my hands from his. I gave him one of my second pair of hands to hold instead, and he kept a tight grip through the rest of the interview.

Sid: It's not that I can't feel them. It's just that I... can't. You know?

I knew the look he was wearing. I know it so, so well at this point. It's like he's trying to explain something that only makes sense in his head and just hoping I'll understand - hoping anybody will understand. I really wish I could. I feel so bad for him when he gets like this - as much as he might insist he's no different from the rest of us, he is something unique. He's well over a thousand years old, by his own reckoning - and maybe much older. That's just the point where he starts having trouble remembering what came before.

Me: I think it would help if you could clarify.

He nodded, and frowned a little. It's been nearly five minutes since he nicked a piece of fudge, so I know he's taking this seriously. I think he understands how much it means to me to chronicle this bizarre little microcosm world of his. He always makes an effort to try and explain when I ask.

Plus, I think he still enjoys the attention, even when it gets uncomfortable.

Sid: Okay. So, when I catch someone, it's like... it takes something out of me. There's a little hollow place inside afterwards. Does that make sense?

"Catching" is how he describes bringing someone here. Like we were falling, and he plucked us safe out of the air. This is the first I've heard of him describing how it feels to him, though. I nodded for him to continue, trying to keep my own eagerness at bay.

Sid: If they decide to go back, the hollow place stays. If they stay, it fills back up. It takes a while, but it always fills up. Sometimes I get really lucky and some of you fill it up to overflowing, and that's even better, because that starts to fills in other hollow places too, and then I feel better.

He didn't say it, but the way he looked at me and smiled when he talked about people who "overflow", I guess maybe he sees me like one of those. It's a heartwarming thought - but what's being taken from him? And how does us staying give it back to him? Are we talking about magic? Souls? I asked, but as I guessed he might, he said he has no idea. It's just how it is for him.

Sid: There's always a little place where I can still feel the hollow they left. Like a scar, maybe. And I... can still feel them. Every day, for the rest of their life.

Me: You can... but you can't?

I made an effort not to look lost at this point. I guess I must've succeeded, because he just nodded eagerly and pressed on.

Sid: Right. Because I tried to catch one again. Later. He was really old, but that's never mattered. But this time, it hurt. It was like... digging fingers into the scar and tearing it open. But I could still catch him, so I brought him here. He didn't remember me, or anything else from the first time. I explained everything to him again. He was really sweet. Kind. Exactly the kind of person I like to have here. But he... made the decision to go back again, and... that hurt too. A lot. And it never went away. Maybe it would've if he stayed, but that wasn't what he wanted.

At this point, my official interview kind of fell apart because I had to hug him. I apologized for ever even thinking of leaving, but he told me to stop that. He says the choice is really important, and even if I'd decided to leave, it would've been okay. He never blames anyone who chooses not to stay. He just wouldn't have tried to bring me back a second time, even if he would've really wanted to.

I remembered to write down a little more of what we said afterward. The important parts.

Me: So you say you can't feel them anymore - it's because you're trying not to.

Sid: When I let myself feel them, I want to help them. So I can't feel them. Not again.

He was visibly trembling a little at this point, so I gave up my notes and just held him for a long time, until he calmed. We took turns feeding each other pieces of fudge, and soon enough his high spirits returned. He even thanked me for the interview, and eagerly asked when we could do something like this again.

I'll never quite understand my dear feline friend.

So, was it a lie? It feels a little like he's using wordplay to twist the truth by omission. It's possible his own logic is so different than mine that it isn't a lie at all in his eyes. He was nervous about it when I asked, sure, but that could just be his discomfort at the subject. I can certainly understand why, knowing what I know now. He takes a risk every time he "catches" someone. If too many of them decide to go back - how many "hollows" can he afford? How badly did that one second attempt damage him, and will it ever heal?

Still, he insists it's worth it, every single time.