Something’s up. The way Malcolm clutches that bag. Did it just move? Long scratches on his hand. Helped Station Security subdue a shoplifter, or so he says. Porthos whining at Malcolm’s feet. Trip feeding Porthos endless treats. The whining changing to barking and growling.
“Sorry, Malcolm, I’m out.”
The bag erupts with a sound like a tactical alert. A multicolored fur ball flies past my shoulder and lands on the helm console. Teeth bared, claws out, tail lashing, hissing.
Travis laughs. “Easy, Stinky.”
He turns for a second and grins. “Way to let the cat out of the bag, Porthos!”