Lavernius Tucker drummed on his steering wheel, glowering at the red light that barred his path. "I swear it's a conspiracy. These lights are never red unless we're late. You sure you're using your magic powers to make it change?"

He glanced into the rearview mirror to see Junior, in the backseat, looking at him like he was something strange growing under his shoe.

"Oh, c'mon, you remember. You used to have that little magic song you'd sing and everything." Tucker cleared his throat to illustrate, and the light promptly changed. "Hah. See? It's all freaked out just thinking about it."

Junior groaned, writhing in his seat with embarrassment. "Come on, Dad. I'm not a little kid anymore."

Tucker snorted. "Then why're you stuck in the back seat instead of up front? Oh yeah, because passenger-side airbags are unsafe for little kids, that's why. Owned!"

Another peek in the rearview mirror earned him a smile, but Junior quickly tamped it down and slouched even further. "Dad, I'm second-oldest in my class this year. Lots of them haven't even turned eight yet."

Tucker, easing the car into the turn for the shelter, filed that note of pride in his voice away for future reference. Junior'd always spent a lot of time as the youngest and smallest in his class. Keeping him back a grade might just work out after all. "Yeah, that's super impressive. Good job being the king of the anthill. Vice-king. Wannabe king."

Junior kicked the back of his seat, unbuckling his seatbelt the second Tucker tapped on the brakes. "So what does that make you?"

"Damn, dude, what do I know about the monarchy?" Tucker said. "Oh, you're not letting me hold the door open for you, Your Puny Highness?"

Junior scowled at him in the way that, a couple years ago, would foretell a certain amount of shin-kicking. Now it mostly just meant a lot of brooding and snarky comments. Kids grew up so fast. Tucker thought about tousling his hair, then thought better of it at Junior's fierce expression. "Sheesh. Okay. You ready for our next foster-cats?"

Junior brightened immediately. "Yes! Do you know which ones we get? I want kittens!"

"They probably won't let us take any kittens," Tucker said, woefully, unpacking the carrier from the trunk. He had, of course, made extra-sure they were going to get kittens this time around. "They might be all out of kittens."

Junior's face scrunched up at the possibility of all-out-of-kittens, but he was still smiling, which meant his Dad-bullshit meter was getting to be better honed. A scary thought.

Donut beamed at them as they walked through the door. Well. Walked through where the door used to be. Tucker stopped and stared at the empty frame, propped up against a wall nearby.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite fosters!" Donut said, and Tucker glanced over to see Junior looking shyly at the ground. Junior liked Donut, maybe had a bit of a little-kid-crush, which meant he refused to speak more than two words to the guy. Which, of course, led Donut to double-down on trying to be nice, which compounded the problem. The whole situation was hilarious. "Here to pick up your latest charges? Oh, have you met Doc yet? I mean Dufresne, not Dr. Grey."

A gangly-looking guy in a purple hoodie waved from where he was shuffling papers next to Donut. "'Sup."

"Hey," Tucker said, and was relieved when Junior repeated the greeting unprompted. Having a polite kid made life like a million times easier. "What the hell's up with the door?"

Donut shrugged. "Caboose and Sarge. Compounded by Grif."

"Ahh," Tucker said. "Say no more. Seriously, don't tell me any more, I left the dog side to get away from that shit."

"And we miss you more and more every day," Doyle said, strolling by. No matter how much paperwork he was carrying, he always managed to be strolling. "Good morning, Tucker. And, ah, oh yes, Junior. Hello."

Tucker grinned. On a scale of one to ten when it came to being good with kids, Doyle was a clueless negative seventeen on a good day. "Hey, Doyle. Keeping it together?"

Doyle flushed, leaning toward the photocopier. "It's that Kimball woman. She has no sense! An excellent offer was brought to her attention today by a Mr. Malcolm Hargrove—he was going to buy the property and the surrounding area for three times the price she originally paid for it! A prime development opportunity!" He made an elaborate gesture of frustration that ended with him accidentally hitting 'print' on the photocopier and cursing softly as page after page of blank paper spat out at him. "It seems so straightforward, and yet she refused him!"

"Well," Junior said, leaning up on the counter next to Tucker. He barely needed to stand on his tiptoes to do so; he was sprouting up like a weed. "What happens to the cats and dogs if you sell the shelter?"

Doyle paused. "Yes, uh, quite. We're not monsters, I'm sure we would... wait until the current crop were all adopted out. Yes, that seems eminently feasible."

"Okay," said Junior, "but what about the cats and dogs that need a shelter after it's closed?"

"Ah," Doyle said, looking helplessly at Tucker, who wasn't especially inclined to bail Doyle out on this one. "You see, I believe that it's very important to—"

"There you are!"

Tucker barely had time to register the new voice before someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him into an energetic hug. "Oof. Hey, Kai. Back from holidays so soon?"

She grinned, pulling back to turn him around and look him up and down. Her gaze lingered below the belt, too. Tucker preened. See, this was why he refused to believe skinny jeans were going out of style anytime soon.

Once her inspection was complete, she shrugged. "Yeah, it got kinda boring. Not enough hot people." She turned past Tucker to grin at Doyle, who looked about ready to melt into the ground. "Hey, Doyle, any hot people coming in today? And if not, can I go home early?" She planted a hand on Junior's head and leaned on him until he erupted into giggles and swatted her away.

"Ah, yes, I, uh—"

"Radio ad's coming out today, right?" said Tucker. "Should bring in some sexy, sexy potential pet-owners. I mean, who else listens to daytime radio? Hot people, that's who."

"Sweet," said Kai. "And Tucker, I know you're a dirty traitor who abandoned us for the cat-side of diabolical evil—" And damn, her Sarge impression was getting better and better. "—but you should totally come say hi more often."

Tucker grinned, leaning back against the counter. "I will. Thanks, Kai."

She paused to look down at Junior, hands on her hips. "Hey, how's school?"

Junior made a face. "Boring."

She made a show of considering that answer, then shook her head. "Nah, you're a nerd like your dad. You love that stuff. Neeeerd."

Junior said, "Shut up, Kai," but he was laughing, looked more relaxed than he had in days. Tucker resolved to have Kai over for dinner again sometime soon.

Kai slapped Tucker's ass on her way the door; Doyle flinched visibly. "Good lord," he said, bidding a hasty retreat back to the dog side with his stack of paperwork. "I don't know how I survive working with you people."

Lopez, walking by with an old computer tower under one arm, muttered, "Yo también."

"That's a good thought," Donut told him, "but I don't think we'll be able to make enough money with a bake sale."

Lopez cast him, Tucker, and the world at large a withering look and continued walking.

"That dude is intense," Tucker said.

"Oh man, speaking of intense," said Donut, and leaned in. "Did you hear about the new volunteers?"

Tucker figured he might as well settle in for a while and set the carrier down. "Donut, I just got in the door like five seconds ago. How could I possibly have heard about the new volunteers?"

"Oh. My. Goodness," Donut said, apparently ignoring Tucker entirely. "They are so interesting. Wash is the tall, chiseled, terrifying type. So's Carolina, only less tall and more terrifying. They're about fifty-fifty on the chiseled side of things, though."

"Chiseled, got it," Tucker said, reading the schedule over Donut's shoulder and only half-listening. Junior grabbed his hand and tugged, bouncing impatiently in place. "Look, Donut, there are kittens that have to be fostered and I think this one's gonna explode if I don't get him there."

"I'm serious!" Donut said. "There's something strange about them. Suspicious, even."

"Diabolical!" Sarge bellowed, shoving the door to the dog side of the shelter open with his shoulder. He had no fewer than five bags of dog food balanced on his shoulders. "Heard you talking, and I agree. There's something wrong with those two!"

"Oh, I don't know that there's anything wrong," Doc said, shifting nervously. "They seem perfectly nice."

Donut's chest swelled. "Well, I think it's a job for Double-oh Donut, international man of mystery!"

"Okay," Tucker said, rapping his fingers on the counter and lifting up the carrier again. Maybe they'd get the hint if he started slowly backing away. "Wow. Slow day, huh?"

Sarge dumped the bags on the ground and dusted off his hands. "Well," he said. "I've seen slower." Then his eyes narrowed. "Don't think I haven't forgotten your betrayal! The cat side! I've never been so... so bamboozled in all my life!"

Tucker grinned nervously. "Hey, the kid likes cats more right now. What can I say?"

Junior turned to glare at him. "Don't put this on me! I love dogs! You said you switched because you wanted to get away from—mpph!"

Tucker managed to pull his hand away from Junior's mouth before he got bit, but only just. "Haha, well, you know, gotta... gotta go!"

With that smooth and eminently suave segue, he hustled Junior ahead of him through the cat-side door, cutting short Sarge's spluttering rejoinder. "Wow," Tucker said. "Weird day."

"You're a weird day," Junior muttered, but his sullenness evaporated instantly at the sight of all the cats. "Oh sweet, a new long-haired one!" Pausing only to wash his hands with sanitizer, he shoved ahead of Tucker into the nearest free-roam room. With a sigh, Tucker set down his carrier in the hallway and followed.

Inside the room, a large, fluffy cat was rolling shamelessly on the floor while a nonplussed-looking woman with bright red hair poked nervously at it with a brush. Tucker's opening salvo of incredibly clever and foolproof pick-up lines died on his lips because, look, there were people who looked like they could crush you with one finger, which was totally Tucker's thing. And then there were people who looked like they could crush you with one finger and nobody would ever find the body, which, maybe not so much.

And this lady? She had muscles that could eat his own hard-earned muscles for breakfast. Couple those with a livid bruise across her forehead and an unnervingly piercing look in her bright, bright green eyes and, well. Instinctively, Tucker put a hand on Junior's shoulder to keep him from running right up to her and the cat. "Hi," he said. His voice absolutely, definitely did not squeak.

She blinked, and he watched her make what looked like a conscious effort to put on a halfway-human attempt at a smile. When she'd managed that step, she turned so he could read her nametag: Carolina :). Tucker had never been so terrified by a smiley face in his life. "Hi," she said. "Welcome to Purrfect Harmony. Is this your first time here?"

"No, we're always here!" Junior said, squirming in Tucker's grasp. "Let go, Dad." When Tucker released his death-grip on Junior's shirt, Junior slid right down next to the cat, pressing his cheek against the floor and staring at it. It blinked back at him, unimpressed.

To Tucker's relief, Carolina merely watched the exchange with a little smile; when Junior picked the cat up and lifted it into his lap, she glanced to Tucker for a cue. "It's fine," Tucker said. "We're fosters for some of the cats here. He's weirdly good with the animals." Junior beamed as the cat settled itself more comfortably in his lap with a purring huff.

Carolina gave a self-deprecating little laugh, pushing to her feet. "He could probably teach me a thing or two. First day and I've already been scratched five times. I might have better luck with the dogs."

Tucker shrugged, spotted an old favorite—the venerable Bob the Cat—lurking nearby, and went over to scratch him under the chin. "Cats are weird. Takes some time to get used to them, same as dogs, but they're pretty cool." Okay, okay, maybe not quite as intimidating as he thought. Time for a softball. "Haha, hey, you know what else is pretty cool?"

Carolina raised one eyebrow. "No."

Tucker swallowed hard. "Me neither."

Junior leaned over the cat in his lap to smoosh its ears down against its head—which it suffered with a remarkably even temper—and then looked up at Carolina. "Hey, what happened to your head?"

"Junior," Tucker said. Junior blinked at him innocently, putting on his very best little-kid-who-doesn't-know-manners expression, which was total bullshit at his age but also... okay, yeah, Tucker was a little curious about that bruise, too.

"Uh, no, it's fine," Carolina said. "I just hit my head on a flowerpot."

Tucker stared at her. "A flowerpot."

"Yeah, one of those... hanging ones," she said. At his blank look, she made a little swinging gesture with her palm toward her forehead. "You know. Wasn't looking where I was going and ran right into it."

"Ow," Junior said.

"Pretty much," said Carolina.

Junior made a little disappointed sound when the cat finally got up off his lap and wandered over to its food dish, then pushed himself to his feet. "Did you have to go to the doctor? I hit my head when I was five and had to get stitches—"

"Okay, kiddo," Tucker said, "time to go. Let's not bother Carolina any more, she's trying to work."

"It's fine," said Carolina. "Good to meet you, uh. Junior."

Junior solemnly shook hands with her, which, mad props to the little guy because Tucker was getting nowhere near Carolina's undoubtedly crushing grip with his delicate-yet-manly hands. "I'm Tucker," he said. "Lavernius, really. I go by Tucker here because everyone seems to do the last-name thing."

"Kimball mentioned that," said Carolina, and then paused, frowning. "So... Donut? That's his real name?"

"Dude, don't get me started with Donut, I have no fuckin' clue." Tucker shrugged, then tugged at Junior's sleeve. "C'mon, kiddo, let's go pick up our fosters."

"See you around," Carolina said, as they left. Her tone was light, but Tucker couldn't help feeling there was a veiled threat in there somewhere.

"You're being weird," Junior told him, as he bent to pick up the carrier again out in the hallway.

"You're being weird," Tucker said, who felt it was his duty as a father to pass on his masterful skills in the art of debate.

"You called me 'kiddo'. You never call me kiddo."

"I totally call you kiddo. All the time. Kiddo."

Junior stared at him. "Okay, Dad. Whatever."

Tucker pushed past him into the Cattery. Jensen immediately spotted him from the back of the room and waved. "Hey, Tucker! Your kittens are almost ready to go. Four of them, seven weeks old. Think you can handle that?"

Tucker grinned, shooting a sidelong glance at Junior, whose jaw had dropped to the floor. "Oh, I think we can manage. How's everything going?"

"Great! I mean, great. Really, really great. Kind of amazing!" Jensen said, with way the fuck more enthusiasm than this place ever warranted. On a hunch, Tucker moved up to look down the row of cages where she was standing. A very pretty girl in a hijab was busy checking the chart of one of the cats at the end of the line.

Tucker grinned at Jensen. Jensen broke into a visible sweat. "Aha!" he said. "Making some new friends at the start of the school year?"

"Tucker," she said, rubbing at her face.

"Wait, wait, I've got a perfect pick-up line for the occasion! You can have this one for free."

"Tucker."

"Hey baby, there's a lot of cute cats here, but wait'll you see my p—"

"Okay, yes, Tucker! We're done here!" Jensen said, loudly enough that the girl at the end of the line turned back curiously toward them. "Go find Bitters to help with your fosters, I'm busy."

Tucker blinked. "Aw."

"Bitters. Now."

"You've been spending way too much time around Kimball," Tucker said. "Got the scary-teacher voice down to a science."

"Bye, Jensen," Junior said.

Jensen grinned at him. "Bye. Tell your dad he's being an ass."

"Hey Dad, you're being an—"

"Language, buddy," Tucker said, and stuck his tongue out at Jensen as she turned away.

Bitters was in his usual hiding-from-work spot, perched on a cinderblock just outside the back door of the building. Unusually, he was there with a stack of paperwork instead of his usual pack of cigarettes. "Hey, Bitters," Tucker said.

"I'm busy," Bitters said, without looking up. "Go bug Palomo."

"I'm gonna pretend for the sake of our friendship that you didn't just suggest I voluntarily have a conversation with Palomo," Tucker said.

Bitters snorted. "Smith, then. I know Kimball's out picking up more cat food." He glanced up. "Hey, Junior. Look, it's good to see you and all, but I really am busy with this messed-up application."

Tucker craned his neck, trying to read upside-down. "What's so messed-up about it?"

Bitters glanced at Junior again, then shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."

"Wow," Tucker said. "Okay, then. Good talk. This whole place is off the rails today."

"Tell me about it," Bitters muttered, already turning pages. "Some rich dude came in and tried to buy us out. Kimball wasn't taking that shit, told him to go fuck himself. Not in so many words, but close."

"Yeah, Doyle was pissed off about it. Which is probably a good sign."

Bitters snorted.

"Okay," Tucker said, when the silence went from awkward to oh-god-just-kill-me-now, and ushered Junior back inside.

"Mr. Tucker!"

Tucker let the cat carrier drop next to him and sat down on top of it. "Smith, I swear, if it turns out you're also being all weird and not-yourself today I'll just sink through the floor and go live in the sewers."

Smith blinked. "I, uh. No, that seems unlikely. I understand that you and Junior are fostering that orphaned litter of kittens, and I wanted to send you home with some reading material about how best to minimize their handling."

Tucker glanced up. "Oh, thank God. You're normal. Or what passes for normal, at least."

"Thank you," Smith said, completely stone-faced, and handed Tucker a massive binder. "Everything's in this pamplet."

"Pamphlet," Tucker said, and handed the binder off to Junior, who could barely lift it. "Right."

"Can we name them?" Junior asked.

"That's not usual protocol," Smith said. "Once they're old enough to be spayed and neutered, we'll be naming them and putting them up with the rest for adoption."

"We can give them names while they're staying with us, okay?" Tucker said, then held up a finger before Junior could speak. "No, we're not naming one of them Fartbutt."

"It's a good name," Junior grumbled.

Smith's face contorted with the effort of concealing his disapproving expression.

"So," Tucker said, "what's up with these new volunteers?"

"I don't want to speak ill of anyone behind their backs," Smith said.

"Oh-ho-ho, sweet! Gossip!" Tucker inched to the edge of the carrier, leaning forward. "C'mon, man, give me something to work with here. That Carolina chick is terrifying."

"She's got a healthy respect for rules and regulations," Smith said. "She's actually read the entire Standard Operating Procedures manual. Both of them have. Cover to cover."

Behind him, Palomo, who was doing a terrible job of pretending not to listen in while putting collars on a litter of kittens, said, "We have operating procedures?"

Smith stared at him with an expression of quiet horror.

"Okay, okay," Tucker said. "So they're a stickler for the rules. That's boring. You're pissed off at them, I can tell."

Smith shifted his weight awkwardly. "I have no quarrel with the new volunteers."

"He yelled at Wash," Palomo said, closing the cage door and wandering over. "Said he wasn't following the no-handling thingie. Where you're not supposed to pick up the kittens unless you have to."

"I didn't yell," Smith said, but there was a flush of color in his cheeks.

"He totally yelled," Palomo said, cheerfully. "Wash went all weird and quiet and just sort of slunk out with his tail between his legs. Not, I mean, not an actual tail or anything."

"Carolina hit her head on a flowerpot," Junior said, eager to contribute.

"Oh, that's such bullshit, she's totally lying," Tucker said. "Like that's a thing."

Smith furrowed his brow. "What, one of those hanging ones? They're a real hazard."

"Oh yeah," said Palomo. "I did that the other day. They'll get you if you're not paying attention."

Tucker stared from one to the other. "Okay," he said. "So I guess it's a thing. Look, can you guys keep an eye on Junior for a sec, get him set up with the kittens? I'm gonna go take a leak."

"I," Palomo announced, as Tucker turned his back, "think it would be, uh, kind of funny? To give the kittens ridiculous names? I mean, officially."

"Fartbutt," Junior said, with great solemnity.

"Oh man, that's perfect!"

Tucker sighed and pushed his way out of the Cattery, muttering under his breath, "I fucking hate that guy."

The front desk was mercifully quiet when Tucker walked by to the bathroom—Donut was apparently in the back doing some filing, judging by the cheerful whistling. Thank fuck. Tucker didn't think he could take another bizarre interaction before lunch.

He reached out for the bathroom door. It flew open and hit him in the face.

"Okay, what the fuck!" he yelped, jumping back and rubbing at his nose.

The guy who'd just opened the door stared at him for a second in a way that immediately reminded Tucker of Carolina, that deer-in-headlights look like the dude was trying to remember how to react to some bizarre new stimulus. Then his expression shifted toward concern, and he backed up a step, half-retreating into the bathroom. "Are you okay? Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"Well, no shit, Sherlock," Tucker grumbled. "My nose bleeding?"

The guy stared at him. "What?"

"My nose. Is there blood coming out of my nose?" Tucker winced, pinching at the bridge. "I think you broke my nose!"

"I, uh. It looks fine, actually. The door really didn't hit you that hard."

"No thanks to you!"

"I... wait, what?"

Tucker rubbed at his nose again and sniffed pitifully. "Dude, a face like this, a perfect profile, you can't be too careful. This is the real money-maker."

"If you say so," the guy said. The door was open just wide enough that Tucker could read the neatly printed Wash on his nametag.

"Oh dude, you're the other weird new volunteer!"

Wash raised an eyebrow. "Weird?"

Tucker cocked his head to one side, broken and tragically maimed nose temporarily forgotten. It was easy to get distracted by the ridiculous musculature and the faint scar that ran down the side of his neck, but the guy's hair was friggin' hilarious. His roots were a couple shades darker brown than his skin, the rest dyed an almost fluorescent white-blond. "Dude, you realize frosted tips went out in the 90s, right?"

Wash blinked. "What?"

"I'm not saying that's what makes you weird, but I am saying it probably doesn't help if you go around looking like a boy-band reject." Tucker belatedly held out a hand. "Tucker. I made fun of your hair as payback for the nose thing, so now we're square."

Wash glanced down for a second before taking his hand in a cautious grip and pulling away almost immediately. "Wash. Pleased to, uh. Meet you. Sorry again. And my hair looks fine."

"Uh-huh. Do you always try to knock new acquaintances the fuck out?" Tucker said, remembering to rub pitifully at his nose again for effect.

"You'd be surprised," Wash muttered, and added, "I'll get out of your way."

When Tucker was done pissing, he took a little time to inspect the damage to his face in the mirror. Wash was right, it looked like it probably wasn't even going to bruise. Fucker.

He paused before going back out to retrieve Junior, leaning on the sink. Seriously, though. There was something really fucking wrong with these people. He knew Kimball was pretty lax with the volunteer apps, but come on. On the scale of shady characters, these two had to be at least former military. Maybe black ops.

He glowered at himself in the mirror and shook his head. "Bullshit," he said, slowly and firmly. He'd met plenty of weirdos over the years who'd turned out to be perfectly nice people. Maybe Carolina and Wash just, like, co-owned a bed and breakfast, gardened frequently—hence the flowerpot incident—and wanted to give back to the community with a little volunteerism. Yeah.

Uh-huh. Sure. And maybe Donut really was Secret Agent Double-Oh Donut in his spare time.

Anyway, it was so not his problem. His problem was four kittens and a son who would no doubt be bouncing off the walls all day, and that was about as much as he was equipped to handle.

He washed his hands and headed back over to the cat side to retrieve Junior and his new charges. As he passed one of the free-roam rooms, the one where the older kittens were housed, he froze, staring through the window.

Wash was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Two kittens were sitting on his chest, pawing suspiciously at his shirt buttons. One was gnawing on his shoelace. One was licking the tip of his ear. A fifth was kneading his shoulder.

And Wash—terrifying, mysterious, tough-guy Wash—was convulsing with breathless, giggly, genuine laughter.