Lyneboro

The target is thirty feet up. From his perch, he's got a clear line of sight down every approach. I have to assume that he's been watching us for several minutes. I rest a hand on my holster and consider my options.

"Are you going to shoot him?" Katie asks.

"No, ma'am, we don't shoot cats," I say.

"Then why do you carry a gun?" the nine-year-old asks.

"Bad guys," I say.

"In Lyneboro?!" she says.

A breeze roars through the giant oaks shadowing the street. I close my eyes and listen. A lawnmower buzzes a few houses down. Yeah: Baghdad, this is not.

"It came with the badge, sweetie," I say. "It doesn't have any bullets."

Overhead, Wilbur meows sadly.

"They should give you a ladder, instead," Katie says.

"It wouldn't look quite the same on the belt," I say. "Listen, hon, why don't you get us some lemonade?"

"Okay!" Katie says.

She takes off at a sprint. Definite Marine potential. After she turns the corner of the house, I scan the street one last time. Empty. I focus on Wilbur's dim shape in the tree, concentrate, and--

SNAP!

--I'm sitting on the broad, shady branch. Wilbur nudges my shoulder and purrs.

"We aren't on speaking terms, Wilbur," I say. "I warned you last week."

He starts kneading my leg. I put my arms around him and look for a spot of open grass through the leaves. Just then, I sense movement. I look over in time to see him: dark hair, blue shirt, under a tree across the street. How long has he been there? He isn't leaving.

"Sorry, Wilbur, looks like we're going to have to do this the hard way," I say.

• I slide down to the next branch...