There's some tutting to be had over Cato's arm, but he listens, careful to keep his movements slow: touching his elbow, turning his arm, and shifting himself aside to better look at those scratches in the light. He can do very little, aside from taking the time to carefully smooth back his fur from the edges of the seeping, red marks.

Something Little Cato said, though...

"'For good or ill, the children of this world have chosen you'," he murmurs to himself, and looks up at the youngster before he lets him go. "They ain't happy, but if you can try to keep anything else from getting in 'em, you should be all right."

"What do either of you remember? Before you got here?"