Something is wrong.

Ryder has cut open one of the gargantuan cardboard boxes and is holding up a bright, yellow t-shirt. It's pretty unremarkable, except for the design plastered across its front. The words 'PAW Patrol' stand out in block writing, complete with our signature logo; a paw-print inside a shield. Below that, Chase's beams at us, standing proud in his uniform. Skye does as well, and so do Marshall and Rubble. The four of them are posed together like a band.

Something is wrong.

This is the fourth item Ryder has showed us so far. Apparently, the merchandise company sent us a complementary box full of the latest designs about to hit the shelves. The last one had been a child's lunchbox, the one before that a baseball cap, and before that a pair of pyjamas. They've all had one thing in common. Or rather, four things in common.

Something is wrong and no one has noticed it, yet. Or, if they have, they're not saying anything.

'Wow, it looks awesome!' Skye says happily, her little tail wagging vigorously.

'So cool!' Rubble chimes in.

'Alright, let's see what else we've got,' Ryder says, setting the yellow t-shirt aside gently and rummaging in the box once more. He produces another t-shirt, a red one, this time. It only has one of us on it.

'Wow, Marshall, you'll make a great fashion statement for eight-year-olds,' Chase says approvingly, nodding towards the blown-up image of Marshall in his latest firefighting uniform smiling at us underneath the words 'Fired Up!' in bold capitals.

'Thanks!' Marshall beams, tail wagging. 'Guess I can cross that off the bucket list.'

Everyone laughs. Everyone except Rocky and I. We're standing together at the back of the group. I know Rocky's noticed it as well but he's not saying anything. I can't bring myself to, either, so I just keep watching the spectacle unfold. Ryder goes through the rest of the contents of the box: Two t-shirts, a sports jacket, and a pair of sneakers with Chase on them; a t-shirt and pair of pyjamas with Rubble on them; a dress, a jacket, and a lunchbox with Skye on them; another t-shirt and a bed robe with Marshall on them; a winter jacket, a dress, and a woollen hat with Everest on them; and a baseball cap with Rocky's face on it, which I'm happy for, at least.

Ryder's noticed it as well, now. His eyes keep flicking to me now and then during the presentation, and there's something uncomfortable in them, his smile a little more forced than before. It isn't long before someone else breaks the spell.

'Wait a minute...' It's Everest. She's frowning at the pile of merchandise. 'What about Zuma? Where's his stuff?'

Silence.

The others are staring at me now, a moment ago's excitement fizzling out into something awkward and far uglier. I can't look at Rocky because I know exactly the look he's giving me, and I don't want to see it. Not from him, not from anyone.

'Uh...' Ryder says, looking blankly into the now empty box and then back at me. 'Don't worry, Zuma, the company probably just...couldn't fit it all in here. They mentioned a whole line of swimwear they're putting together for you. I'll chase them up on it...don't worry.'

The others are still staring, except now they're waiting for me to say something.

'It's cool,' I say with a smile and a dismissive wave of my paw, because it is fine, because I'm Zuma - cool as a cucumber and unbothered by everything, because what else can I be? 'I was never into fashion, anyway. You know me, I'm more a pup of action.' I add a little chuckle on the end to make it more convincing. No one laughs this time.

- From Dog Under: My Life in the PAW Patrol by Zuma (p.68)

NOW

'I think I can't just abandon my full-time job for the sake of a book tour, no matter how sparkly you make it sound,' Zuma replied.

Bailey leaned back in his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling. 'Ugh, Zuma, wake up and smell the dog treats!' He said in exasperation. 'This is a golden opportunity, one that is never going to come your way again. Ever. Trust me. You gotta seize it with your paws...teeth...whatever, and not let go! Think of all you could gain from this.'

'Like what, Bailey?' Zuma said so sharply that Bailey actually jumped a little bit. 'Another shouting match with Chase? More ignored voicemails to Skye? An even less existent relationship with Rocky? More strangers on the street calling me a traitor? In case it wasn't clear the first time around, I can't deal with that kind of that crap in my life.'

To his credit, Bailey allowed Zuma a few silent moments to collect himself again before speaking.

'I know, Zuma. I was there,' he said quietly. He took a breath. 'Look, I won't sit here and pretend I understand what it was like to go through that mess, but...so much has changed since then. You've changed. God, you were barely an adult back then and now look at you. You're an inspiration to so many...including me.'

Zuma looked at him, caught off guard, and frowned.

'What?'

Bailey closed his eyes and pressed his palms together and, for a second, Zuma thought he was about to start praying. '

Okay, not to get too heavy or anything, but I know what it's like to be at the bottom of the proverbial food chain. That was basically my entire childhood; being ignored, being the one everyone forgot about over and over again. Why do you think I was so hell-bent on being the one to represent you? Because you and me, Zuma? We get it.'

Zuma stared at Bailey, lost for words. He'd never imagined seeing him in such a different light, and yet, here there he was. Different and yet the same.

'You never told me that,' he said softly.

Bailey snorted, and the jovial mask was back in place, subtle as water.

'Of course not, I was your agent. That would be so unprofessional. But, I'm not your agent right now. I consider myself your friend, or, at least, the next closest thing, and I promise you, this place-' he gestured around the office, '-will always be here when you get back. Forget the money, the deals, the publicity - all that crap. I just think it would be a criminal shame if the world missed out on hearing your voice again.'

Zuma studied Bailey, then his desk, then the window. The tide had risen and more beachgoers had arrived to go swimming, their bodies bobbing up and down in the water like little flakes of confetti. He opened his mouth to say something but Bailey checked his watch and beat him to it.

'Well, I said two minutes and I'm a man of my word.' He stood up and stretched elegantly. 'Sales pitch over, I'll leave you be, I promise. Just...think about it, okay? Please.'

He made it to the door before pausing and turning on the spot back to Zuma. 'Oh, by the way, I found this awesome little seafood place in town. We should totally go sometime when you're off-shift. You still like seafood, right?'

'Uh, yeah.'

'Cool! I'm here 'til Sunday. Hit me up.'

Then he was gone and Zuma was left in the quiet of his office, permeated only by the distant sounds of crashing waves and voices of the public. He released a breath that felt like it had been building for years and turned back in his chair to his desk. He suddenly found it impossible to concentrate on the weather reports in front of him as his brain was whirring like a motor, trying to process the last five minutes.

Another book tour. The idea was dismissible at best and ridiculous at worst; Zuma had enough on his plate, and he couldn't just waltz out of here and leave the beach scrambling. They'd need another qualified dog to take over for him and that would be another layer of stress and...and why couldn't he stop thinking about it, then? He found himself leaning back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling, and idly tapping his paw against the desk. He remembered, in one of his press interviews, being asked if he had any regrets about Dog Under. His answer had been a resounding 'no', illustrating how glad he was for the world to finally know his true story. He remembered the book signings - the droves of people telling him how much they loved the book and related to its contents and considered him their hero. Did Bailey have a point? Had Zuma been focusing purely on the negatives all this time, not allowing room to consider all the good things the book had brought to his life? What did that mean, exactly? What was holding him back, then, if not just himself?

The waters were murkier now than they had been in years. Zuma suddenly pictured himself treading an ocean without a compass: directionless and, yet, free to go in any which way. All that was left to do now was choose one.

THEN

'Hey, it's Skye, sorry I'm not available right now, leave a message!'

'Hey, Skye, it's Zuma...again. Um, I know it's late and you're really busy these days, so...not sure if you got my other messages, but...uh, hope you're all good and, uh...call me if you can. Bye.'

Zuma pressed the hang-up button on the phone and slouched in his bed. He knew he should be asleep; he had an interview and signing first thing tomorrow that would last most of the day and he'd need all his energy for it. Yet, here he was, awake at 09:46 pm, staring at the blank, reflective screen of his phone. That was the fifth message he'd left Skye in two weeks. He'd even gone as far as to try her pup tag, which had been a complete long shot, and it had turned up nothing, as expected.

The rational part of his brain told him to give up the goose, that it was pointless, that she simply didn't want to talk to him (ever again), and that this would probably be classed as harassment at this point. But, the other part of him held out, telling him that it would be okay if he could just get a hold of her, could just explain himself...

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his paw. They were starting to sting and he knew he'd regret it tomorrow if he didn't call it a night now. But there was another number he had to try, one that had been given to him freely after they'd stopped using the pup tags. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

He's not gonna answer.

Four times, five times.

He's not gonna answer.

Six times.

He's not gonna-

'Hello?'

Zuma somehow froze and jumped to attention at the same time, sitting bolt upright.

'Rocky? Rocky, hey, it's me.'

A horrible pause that, in reality, only lasted half a second but may as well have been an hour.

'Zuma?' Rocky said.

'Yeah! Yeah, it's me. Hey. How...how are you?'

Another pause.

'I'm...good, I guess. What, uh, what's up? Are you okay?'

Zuma realised how transparent the desperation in his voice must have been and cleared his throat, composing himself into something more casual sounding.

'Yup, all cool on this end.'

The pause was longer, this time, and Zuma found it almost unbearable. He scrambled for something to say, but Rocky spoke again.

'Cool. So, uh...why are you calling?'

'Oh. Right, er, no reason, really. Just...wanted to...catch up, y'know? It's been a while...'

'Zuma, it's nearly ten pm.'

Zuma's brain went back to scrambling. It suddenly dawned on him that calling someone he hadn't spoken to in months in the middle of the night for a friendly chat might come across as a little unstable. Embarrassment flooded down his back.

'Right...yeah, sorry. You weren't asleep or anything, were you?'

'Well, no, but...'

'Cool. Me neither. Obviously.'

This wasn't what he'd wanted to say. How was it already going so wrong so fast? The silence on the other end was like a great weight slowly lowering itself on Zuma's body, inch by inch by inch...

'Alright, well, if there's nothing else, then-'

'Rocky?' Zuma cut him off before he could stop himself.

'...Yeah?'

'Are you mad at me?'

More silence. Then, a sound that may or may not have been a sigh.

'Zuma, I really don't-'

'It's okay if you are,' Zuma blurted. 'I mean, like, I'd totally understand...I mean, you have every right to feel however you feel, and you can tell me, you know that, right? You can tell me if you're mad.' The words were tumbling out of him, as graceless as dead fish from a net. 'I just...I just wanna know if you are, 'cause...'cause you're my best friend and...and...'

His voice trailed off pitifully as his lip wobbled and he fought to keep himself together. A full five seconds passed before Rocky spoke again and his voice sounded uncharacteristically tired.

'I'm not mad at you, Zuma.' That sentence alone should've filled Zuma with a sense of relief, even happiness, but it gave him neither. 'I just...things are difficult, right now, y'know? I'm in a weird position between you and the others and I'm trying to keep it all together...y'know? Look...it's been a really long day and I need to hit the sack. We'll talk later, okay? We'll talk.'

'...Yeah. Yeah, okay, no sweat. I'll just, um...I'll let you go, then. Have a good night, Rocky.'

'Goodnight, Zuma...and good luck with the rest of the tour.'

The call ended and Zuma gently pushed the phone away with his paw. The sting behind his eyes had worsened and his head felt strangely heavy on his shoulders. It was okay, though, because Rocky said they would talk later. They'd talk and things would get cleared up, and he'd still get to have Rocky in his life in some capacity. He and Chase might be done, he and Skye might be done, and Marshall, and Rubble, and even Ryder, but he'd still have Rocky, at the very least. From the bed, Zuma had a clear view of the city through the expansive, curtain-less window. His hotel room was on the thirty-seventh floor, and so the smaller buildings and traffic were sprawled beneath him, their lights flickering in the night like an array of dying stars as he gazed at them. It would be okay.

It had to be.