I’m walking into the living room when I notice Pandora sitting on the couch with her laptop open.
She’s typing away like everything is completely normal, and John Mercer is over by the kitchen counter, making himself a sandwich.
Nothing unusual.
At least, that’s what I tell myself at first.
Then I realize something’s off.
Mr. Whiskers is nowhere to be seen.
That doesn’t happen.
He was just here a minute ago, curled up on Pandora’s lap. I’m sure of it. He doesn’t just disappear like that, especially when Pandora’s sitting still. That’s prime lap time.
I glance around the room, expecting to see him stretched out somewhere nearby.
Nothing.
And that’s when I notice it.
In the corner of the room, near the wall, there’s a cat carrier.
Mrs. Jenkins’ cat carrier.
Empty.
I stop for a second, just looking at it.
Because I don’t remember that being there.
I would remember that.
It’s not exactly subtle.
A cat carrier doesn’t just quietly blend into the background. It’s the kind of thing you notice immediately, especially in a room you’ve been sitting in.
I look over at John.
He’s focused on his sandwich.
Too focused.
Like he’s putting more effort into spreading something evenly than any reasonable person should.
I look back at the carrier.
Still there.
Still empty.
Still not something that should be in this room.
I try to retrace things in my head.
We were all just sitting here watching TV. John had his backpack with him. Pandora was on the couch. Mr. Whiskers was right there.
Everything made sense.
Now it doesn’t.
John’s backpack is leaning against the wall instead of being by his feet.
The carrier is in the corner.
The cat is gone.
And Pandora is acting like none of this is worth mentioning.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep it casual. “Where’s Mr. Whiskers?”
Pandora doesn’t look up from her laptop.
“I don’t know. He probably wandered off.”
Probably.
That’s not an answer.
That’s a dismissal.
Mr. Whiskers doesn’t “wander off” when Pandora is sitting still. He relocates strategically. There’s a difference.
I take a few steps into the room, my eyes moving between the carrier and the spot where he was sitting earlier.
No fur. No movement. Nothing.
Just… gone.
I glance back at the carrier again.
It’s positioned too neatly.
Not shoved aside. Not partially hidden.
Placed.
Like it was put there on purpose.
I look at John again.
He finally glances up, just for a second.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
Too neutral.
I shake my head. “No, just… looking for the cat.”
He nods once and goes back to his sandwich.
That’s it.
No follow-up.
No “haven’t seen him.”
No “maybe he’s in the other room.”
Just… nothing.
Which somehow feels worse.
I turn back toward Pandora.
She’s still typing.
Focused.
Calm.
Maybe too calm.
I try to think this through logically.
Option one: Mrs. Jenkins came over and left the carrier here.
But if that happened, I would’ve noticed.
Option two: Pandora borrowed it for some reason.
But then why wouldn’t she just say that?
Option three: John brought it in.
But why would John have Mrs. Jenkins’ cat carrier?
None of those feel right.
And none of them explain where Mr. Whiskers went.
I take a few more steps into the living room and check behind the couch.
Nothing.
Under the table.
Nothing.
I even glance toward the hallway, half-expecting him to casually walk out like I’ve imagined this whole thing.
He doesn’t.
I straighten up slowly.
Now my brain starts doing that thing.
The thing where it takes a small, slightly confusing situation and starts building something much bigger out of it.
I don’t want it to do that.
But it’s already started.
What if the carrier isn’t just here by coincidence?
What if it’s here because someone needed it?
And if someone needed it…
where is the cat?
I look back at Pandora.
Still typing.
Still not acknowledging any of this.
Then at John.
Still eating.
Still not asking questions.
It’s like I’m the only one noticing that something changed.
That something moved.
That something is missing.
And now I’m standing in the middle of the living room, trying to figure out how a completely normal moment turned into something that doesn’t quite add up.
Because one minute everything was exactly where it should be.
And the next—
it wasn’t.