“My mom and dad were here this morning.” I stroke my cat’s tuxedo fur. “It was as frightening as expected.” Moffy gives me an empathetic wince. “That bad?” Farrow has a boot on the chair. “Moretti is still alive.” He eyes Thatcher who leaves the kitchen, carrying kibble in little cat bowls. Walrus and Carpenter make a mad dash to him, jumping at his calves. “It wasn’t that bad,” Thatcher says seriously.
