See! He likes you,” Natalie said triumphantly.

I stared down at the scrawny scrap of fur cautiously sniffing my hand.
“He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m going to feed him.”

“Now who’s being a cynic? Anyway, every bookstore should have a cat.”

The cat -- assuming it was a cat and not some beige bug-eyed refugee from outer space -- slunk uneasily down the counter, and flinched at the flutter of Mystery Scene pages as a gust of warm air blew in from the street.

Josh Lanyon