The Department of Lost Things was not located in the sky-high towers of Catsopolis. It was in the bowels of the city, deep beneath the street level.
Noah and Mittens stood before the entrance: a small, unassuming door wedged between a boiler room and a pile of discarded scratching posts. The sign on the door read: DEPARTMENT OF REDUNDANCY DEPARTMENT - KEEP OUT (UNLESS YOU HAVE FORM 27B).
"I hate birds," Mittens hissed, his fur standing on end. "They're twitchy. And they peck."
"You don't have to come in," Noah whispered, checking the hallway for guards. "I can do this alone."
"And let you get filed away in a cabinet? No thanks," Mittens grumbled. "The Purr-sident would skin me if I lost his favorite pet. Open the door."
Noah pushed the door open.
The room beyond was vast, a cavernous warehouse filled with endless rows of filing cabinets that stretched up into the darkness. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and ink.
Perched on top of the cabinets were the workers.
Magpie Jays. Dozens of them. They were large birds with iridescent blue and black feathers, wearing tiny green visors and holding pens in their beaks. They hopped from cabinet to cabinet, squawking orders and rearranging piles of junk—keys, single socks, toys, and shiny trinkets.
"Form!" a bird squawked, swooping down to land on a stack of papers in front of Noah. "Present Form 27B! Inquiry! Requisition! Squawk!"
Noah flinched. The bird's beak was sharp and inches from his nose.
"I... I'm looking for a Hair Bow," Noah said. "It was lost."
"Lost! Lost is found! Found is filed!" the Magpie shrieked. "No form! No bow! Protocol! Security! Peck him!"
"Run!" Mittens yelled.
The room erupted into chaos. The Magpies descended like a blue and black storm, swooping and diving. They weren't attacking to kill; they were attacking to annoy. They pecked at Noah's ears, pulled at his hair, and tried to steal the buttons off his jumpsuit.
"Get to Section H!" Mittens shouted, batting a bird out of the air with a swift paw. "H for Hair Accessories!"
Noah sprinted down the aisle of cabinets, ducking under swooping birds. The noise was deafening —a chorus of Squawk! Form! Denied! Penalty!
He saw the sign: SECTION H: HATS, HELMETS, HAIR.
He frantically pulled open drawers.
Hats (Top).
Helmets (Space - Toy).
He ripped open the third drawer. It was filled with ribbons, clips, and bands.
And there, sitting on top of a pile of neon scrunchies, was a simple white bow with polka dots.
Noah grabbed it.
ZAP.
He was in the kitchen. Katy was sitting on a stool, kicking her legs. Noah was trying, clumsily, to tie her hair back.
"Ouch, Daddy! You're pulling!"
"Sorry, honey. I have big fingers. There. Perfect."
He spun her around. She beamed at him, the white bow lopsided but beautiful.
"I look like a princess!"
"You are a princess. Princess of the Kitchen."
ZAP.
Noah slammed the drawer shut. "Got it!"
"Then let's fly!" Mittens yowled, leaping onto Noah's shoulder as a squadron of Magpies dived for them.
Noah turned and ran, clutching the bow to his chest, dodging pecks and paperwork, sprinting toward the exit with the desperate speed of a father who was finally, truly, fighting back.