9e945bf3b1d705d5d70aa6e5ed9fa2ba

“Let it go, Butterbean,” Oscar said, hopping on the remote to unmute the Television. “The News is back on. They’re about to identify the common household appliance that can make us go bald.”

Ever since their heist, Oscar had been obsessed with the News. Butterbean wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like the News was even talking about their heist anymore. They were old news. On the other hand, she didn’t want to go bald.

Butterbean blew on a piece of squeaky-lamb fluff and groaned.

“I get it, Butterbean,” Marco said, climbing out of his cage and plunking down next to her. “Us former criminal types have a hard time adjusting to regular life. It’s rough. But at least you see Madison. I barely ever see Wallace anymore.”

“SEE? Wallace is GONE,” Butterbean said triumphantly, sitting up.

“Shhhh,” Oscar hissed, turning the volume up on the Television. “Bald, Butterbean.”

Walt finished licking her paw.“Moving into a new apartment isn’t gone. Wallace just got his own place.”

“It’s not like he lived with us anyway,” Polo said, following Marco’s lead and climbing out of their cage. “Wallace is still a wild rat, you know.”

Wallace was a former pet rat who lived in the Strathmore Building’s seventh-floor vents. But a few weeks ago he’d discovered an empty apartment on the fifth floor. And since nobody seemed to be using it, he’d moved his stuff in and sent out change-of-address notices. (Polo thought that was a little formal, but Wallace seemed very proud.)

“Nothing wrong with a little peace and quiet,” Walt said, examining her other paw.

“Personally, I like retirement. It’s relaxing! We’ve got Mrs. Food, and how many rats have an extra bonus person to take care of them? We’ve got it made!” Marco patted Butterbean on the paw.

“And it’s not like nothing exciting will ever happen again,” Polo said, patting the other paw. “Something exciting could happen AT ANY TIME!”

“Right! Something could happen right now!” Marco chimed in.

Polo nodded.“Or now!”

Marco tilted his head and waited a second.“Or now!”

Polo grinned.“Right. Or now!”

“Cut it out, you guys,” Walt said.

“Or not,” Polo said. “Maybe not RIGHT now.”

Walt sighed.“Bean, we can’t expect something exciting to happen just because we’re bored.”

“AHA! So you’re bored too!” Butterbean jumped to her feet. “I knew it!” she barked happily. “You—” But she never finished the sentence. Because that’s when the pounding started.

Five heads swiveled to look at the front door. The pounding was so loud that they could almost see it—it felt like the door was bouncing inward with each blow. And with each blow the animals cringed and retreated farther into the room.

“Places, everyone!” Oscar screeched, and the animals scrambled so they wouldn’t be caught out of their cages. Oscar had barely gotten his cage door closed before Mrs. Food appeared in the hallway, carefully making her way toward the front door. (She was always extra careful now, ever since she’d slipped in a patch of Butterbean’s barf and had to go to the hospital. Nobody wanted that to happen again, especially Butterbean. She still felt guilty.)

“Don’t open it!” Butterbean yelped. She could feel the hairs on her back prickling. She didn’t want to know what was outside in that hallway. Trying to get in.

But Mrs. Food didn’t listen.

Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Food threw the door open. In one swift motion, the thing in the hallway lunged at Mrs. Food, clutching her and sobbing into her shoulder.

“AAAAHHH!” Polo shrieked, diving underneath the cedar bedding in the corner of the cage.

“URGH!” Mrs. Food braced herself against the doorframe as the thing squeezed her. It was shaking and making weird squeaky hiccuppy noises.

Walt crouched down, flexing her claws.“I’ll go for the eyes!” Going for the eyes was Walt’s go-to attack method.

“Wait, is that…” Butterbean sniffed. The monster attacking Mrs. Food smelled very familiar. And it kind of looked more like a hug-attack than an attack-attack. And what kind of monster made squeaky sobs?

“Wait, who…” Oscar craned his neck to get a better look.

Butterbean took one last sniff.“It’s Mrs. Third Floor!” she gasped.

“Stand down, Walt.” Oscar snapped his beak shut. Mrs. Third Floor was not an enemy.

Walt shot him a look in response, but she stayed in attack position. You could never be too sure.

Mrs. Third Floor was a lady from the building, and up until that moment, Butterbean would’ve said she knew everything about her. After all, she’d seen her around the building since she was a puppy. (Butterbean, not Mrs. Third Floor.)