The door to the Department of Lost Things slammed shut, muffling the angry squawks of the Magpie Jays, though the sound of their beaks pecking against the wood sounded like hail on a tin roof.
Noah leaned against the door, sliding down until he hit the dusty floor. His chest heaved. He clutched the white polka-dot bow in his left hand and the wooden Ark model under his right arm.
"We got it," Noah wheezed, a grin breaking through the sweat and grime on his face. "We actually got it."
Mittens didn't celebrate. The tabby cat was pacing back and forth, his tail lashing violently. "We got it? We got a death sentence, is what we got. You triggered the alarm, hairless! The Magpies are filing a Form 99-Red right now!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means 'Rogue Pet,'" Mittens hissed. "It means the Dobermans aren't coming to escort you to grooming. They're coming to drag you to the Pound. You can't go back to your kennel, Noah. The cycle is broken."
Noah looked at the bow. The memory of tying it into Katy's hair—the feeling of her small, warm head, the smell of her shampoo—was still buzzing in his fingertips. It gave him a surge of adrenaline that cut through the fatigue.
"I don't want to go back," Noah said, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm done with the kibble. I'm done with the fake window."
"So what's the plan, genius?" Mittens asked, ears swiveling toward the distant sound of sirens—a sound that was suspiciously like a choir of howling wolves. "Live in the sewers? Eat rats?"
"No," Noah said, looking up.
They were in the basement, but above them, miles above through layers of concrete and carpet, was the Penthouse. The "Executive Suite."
"The Persians in the salon said she was in the Tower," Noah said, his voice hardening. "The 'Little One.' She's crying for this bow. I'm going to take it to her."
Mittens stopped pacing. He looked at Noah, really looked at him, with an expression that was half-fear, half-awe. "You want to break into the Purr-sident's private quarters? That's the highest security zone in Catsopolis. It's suicide."
"It's a rescue mission," Noah corrected. He checked his pocket to make sure the grey pebble—his anchor—was safe. "And I need a guide. Are you in, or are you going to go back to eating trash?"
Mittens hesitated. He looked at the dark tunnel leading away from the Department. He looked at Noah. He let out a long, rattling sigh.
"I hate trash," Mittens grumbled. "And I hate wolves even more. Fine. But if we die, I'm eating your corpse."