The Trouble with Kittens
I’d know that shaggy waste of fur anywhere.
“Hey, Sis,” I said, plopping down beside her. The sun would set soon, and the air smelled alive with promise. Insects buzzed, and birds called out.
“Look,” she said. “Down there.”
At the bottom of the hill seemed to be one of those pointy-stick-two-leg walkers just milling about. Strangely, it was bright yellow—like a flower—and didn’t have a face.
