Head On (Lock In, #2)

by John Scalzi

And, well, sure. It was like that, exactly in the way going to Taco Bell is like living in a small village deep in Quintana Roo. But then, Taco Bell has thousands of locations, so you tell me.

“JESUS,” VANN SAID, as we drove to Alton Ortiz’s town house. “You’ve had that cat for fifteen minutes and you’re already spoiling it.” “I’m not spoiling it,” I said, petting it as it sat contentedly in my lap, purring. The name on the tag said “Donut.” I assumed it was the cat’s name. “You just fed it tuna. You made me stop so you could get tuna, and you fed it to the cat.”

“You don’t understand,” Vann said. “Once you feed a cat tuna, it doesn’t go back to regular cat food. You try to feed that cat regular food now, it will just stare at you accusingly. And if you don’t produce the tuna, the cat will go and shit in your shoes.”

“It’s a federal witness,” Tayla told them. “We have a witness protection cat?!?” The twins looked at Donut with obvious excitement. Donut gazed up at them.

“We have a fugitive cat!” the twins yelled back.

“It’s a cat,” I said. “If Donut wants to spend time with you he’ll show up in your room and sit on your important things.”

“Your pinky promises sit on a throne of lies,” Tony said.

“Yeah, no. There’s that old saying: Fast, cheap, and good, you get to pick two. The two you just picked are fast and good. Cheap has just left the building.”

“And I told you to tell me where to park,” Vann said. “But if you want to get into a pissing match about it, Officer”—she read his badge—“Wheeler, I’m sure we can find a way to have you be a school safety officer for the rest of your natural life.”