Time in the Pound didn't pass; it dripped. Drip. Drip. Drip. somewhere in the distance, a pipe was leaking, measuring out the eternity of Noah's confinement.
He sat in the corner of his cell, knees pulled to his chest. He was wearing a new uniform—bright orange, stiff, and itchy. It had a number printed on the back: 042.
"I am Noah," he whispered to his knees.
But the words felt thin. Without the Stone to anchor him, the fog of Catsopolis was creeping back in, but it wasn't the pleasant, drug-induced fog of the Palace. This was a grey, heavy smog of depression.
Maybe I am just a pet, a treacherous voice whispered in his ear. Maybe the nursery was a hallucination. Maybe Katy is fine, playing in another room, and I'm just a bad dog who bit the hand that feeds him.
He looked at the laser bars. Beyond them, the corridor was dimly lit by flickering red emergency lights. He could hear sounds from other cells. Whimpering. Scratching. The occasional low, mournful howl.
"Quiet down!" a guard shouted from the end of the block, banging a baton against the metal.
Noah closed his eyes. He tried to summon the image of the beach. The smell of the rain. But all he could see was the empty bed. The white sheets. The way Mr. Whiskers had looked so small on the pillow.
Mr. Whiskers.
The stuffed cat was gone. Confiscated. Put in some locker in the evidence room.
The thought made Noah's blood boil. That cat was Katy's. She had held it when she got her shots. She had held it when the thunder scared her. It was charged with her bravery.
"I have to get him back," Noah said, his voice raspy.
He stood up and walked to the laser bars. He reached out a hand. The air hummed with heat. If he touched them, he'd be burned.
"Hey!" Noah shouted. "Hey! Guard! I need water!"
Silence.
"I said I need water!"
"Shut up, 42," a voice hissed.
It wasn't a guard. It came from the ventilation grate near the ceiling of his cell.
Noah froze. He looked up. "Who's there?"
"A friend," the voice whispered. "Or a ghost. Depending on how long you've been in here."
"Mittens?" Noah gasped, hope flaring in his chest like a match.
"Mittens is gone," the voice said, sounding annoyed. "I'm Agent M. Now keep your voice down, or the Dobermans will put the Cone on you. And trust me, you don't want the Cone."