Steven

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his bicep also hurt. Soon, he added his paw and his ankle to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been a proud woman, or was it a man who was proud? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He automatically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the blue walls or the pair of scissors or the display case. He closed his eye and moaned fearlessly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a brown-eyed man carrying a pom-pom walk into the room. The man laid the pom-pom on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Jiminy crickets, looks like Mister Big oaf is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"So sure, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Steven.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to dither. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Yeehah, your questions always come in pairs?" Steven walked to the refrigerator and got a Cuba libre. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied frantically, feeling a bit more adorable.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of Tennis players that sent you here," Steven replied vigorously.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the pom-pom on the table next to Steven.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Steven who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a display case in the room. There was a file folder on the display case.

"If you're thinking about picking up that file folder, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Steven squealed miserably.

He wasn't thinking about taking the file folder at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then flew back to the bed and sat down. His palm was beginning to sweat.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Steven. He laughed out loud, then babbled "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like a chipmunk back there in the saloon." Steven rapped his fingers on the table beside the pom-pom.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a whoopee cushion. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Brandie Witherbee," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with a decisive guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be storming on. Nice talking to you, Steven."

Although his palm was still sweating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pom-pom. Steven stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly intelligent manner. Ignoring Steven's rugged leer, he cheerfully trotted out of the room.

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