Big Boned

But no one’s told him that. He’s twenty-five pounds or so of pure enraged muscle. And he’s taking it out on me. All I can taste and smell for a few seconds is fur and gunpowder, especially when I practically land on him.

But I’m alive.

I’m alive.

I’m alive.

Pam is staring confusedly at the spot in which I’d been standing. Blinking, she turns, and stares at the place to which I’ve leaped over the couch.

When she sees what I’m holding, her eyes widen.

“That’s right,” I say. My voice sounds oddly muted. That’s because the crack of the pistol had been so loud, everything in relation now sounds completely muffled, including the protests from the creature I’m holding, like the city after a record snowfall. “I’ve got Garfield. Come any closer, Pam, and I swear, the cat gets it.”

The smile that had been playing across Pam’s face freezes. Her upper lip begins to twitch.

“You’re… you’re bl-bluffing,” she stammers.

“Try me,” I say. The stupid cat still won’t quit struggling. But over my dead body am I letting go of him. Literally. “Pull that trigger again, and yeah, you might hit me. But I’ll still have time to snap his neck before I go. I swear I’ll do it. I love animals—but not this one.”

And I do mean that. Especially as Owen’s cat’s fangs sink into my wrist. Ow! Stupid cat! Wasn’t I the one who brought Pam over here to make sure he got his stupid pills? Talk about ungrateful! Like pet, like owner.

Pam’s face twists in pain—even though I’m the one who’s bleeding.

“Garfield!” she cries, in anguish. “No! Let him go, you witch!”

Witch. Not bitch.

Priceless.

I’m not sure, given my state of semi-deafness. But I think I hear voices in the hallway. Suddenly there’s pounding on the door to the apartment.

“Put the gun down, Pam,” I say, stalling for time. “Put the gun down, and no one—including Garfield—will get hurt. It’s not too late to give yourself up.”

“You—you meanie!” Pam’s eyes are bright with tears. “All I wanted was what I deserved! All I wanted was to make a clean start! Why can’t you just let the cat go, and we’ll call it even? I’ll go—I’ll take Garfield, and go. Just give me a head start.”

“I can’t do that, Pam,” I say. “You already called the cops, remember? In fact—I think they’re here.”

Pam spins around just as something that sounds like a small explosion goes off in the hallway. A second later, four or five of New York’s Finest, their guns drawn, burst into the living room.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone before in my life. I’d have rushed over and kissed them if I hadn’t been so busy concentrating on not getting my hands gnawed off.

“Ma’am!” the first cop cries, the mouth of his piece pointed at Pam’s chest. “Drop the gun, lay down on the floor, and place your hands upon your head, or I will be forced to fire.”

I’m busy thinking it’s all over. I’m busy thinking,Swell, okay, she’s going to put the gun down, and I can put this stupid cat down, and then I can go home, and this will be all over, and I can go back to my boring little life, for which I will never again be ungrateful. I love my boring little life. I love it. Thank God this is finally over.

Except it isn’t. Not by a long shot. No pun intended.

“You don’t understand,” Pam wails, waving her gun at me. “She has Garfield! She won’t let go of Garfield!”

Oh God. No. Please, no.

“Ma’am,” the officer says again. “I’m asking you again to drop the gun, or I will be forced to fire.”

Drop the gun, Pam. Pam, please. Just drop the gun.

“But I called you,” Pam insists, still waving the gun around. “She’s the one who threatened me!”

The next thing I know, another shot’s been fired. I have no idea whose gun it’s come from, or whether or not it strikes home, because I’ve hit the floor, clutching Garfield to me and curling into as small a ball as I possibly can, with the thought of trying to make myself into the tiniest target possible. The cat, for his part, has stopped trying to bite me, and is now clinging to me as tightly as I’m clinging to him. If his ears are ringing anywhere near as loud as mine are, I figure he has as little idea what’s going on as I do.

All I know is, it’s just me and Garfield, all alone in this world. Just me and him. All we have is each other. I’m never letting go of him. And I’m pretty sure he’s never letting go of me.

It isn’t until someone lays a hand on my shoulder and shouts, “Miss! It’s all right to get up now!” (apparently, he had to shout in order for me to hear him, since my hearing was so blown on account of the gunfire) that I uncurl myself and look around to see that Pam’s gun has been wrestled away from her—primarily because some excellent marksman has shot it out from her fingers. She’s cradling her now useless and bloody fingers in her uninjured hand, and blubbering out a confession to my old friend, Detective Canavan, who looks at me tiredly above the semi-hysterical woman’s head.

Wedding china?he mouths.

I am in so much shock, I can’t even shrug. The truth is, I don’t get it, either. But then again, there’s a lot I don’t seem to get. Like why, even though the police officers and EMTs keep offering to take Garfield from me, I still can’t let him go. In my defense,he won’t let go of me, either. It’s like we’re the only two stable beings in a world turned suddenly topsy-turvy.

I’m still holding on to him—and he to me—half an hour later when Detective Canavan finally escorts me into the elevator and then out into the lobby. Flashing red lights from all the cop cars parked outside Owen’s building reflect against the marble and brass—but that isn’t the only difference between now and when I’d gone upstairs a few hours earlier. Something else has changed as well. It takes me a minute to register what it is, and that’s because my hearing still hasn’t quite recovered from the gunfire.

Then it hits me.

There’s screaming from the park.

Not chanting. Not cheering.Screaming.

I freeze with Detective Canavan’s hand on my back just as he’s about to escort me outside. My statement done—I’d given it upstairs—he’d been about to walk me home.

But now I’m reluctant to step out the door. Not into that. No way.

“It’s okay, Heather,” he says encouragingly. “It’s just those kids who were rallying earlier. They’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating,” I echo. “Celebrating what?”

“The president’s office apparently sent over a memo a little while ago. They settled their differences.”

I blink. “They… settled?”

“That’s right,” Detective Canavan says. “The kids won. The president’s office conceded on all points. Decided he’d had enough bad press lately. Either that, or he didn’t like having a big rat sitting outside his office door. He’s never been over to the West Side, obviously.”

I blink with astonishment. “President Allington settled? The GSC won?”

“That’s what I hear,” Detective Canavan says. “We’ve got the whole precinct on hats and bats, dealing with crowd control. We expect ’em to start tipping cars over any minute. Helluva night you picked to get shot at. Ah, there’s the boyfriend. Right on time.”

And with that, Detective Canavan steers me out the door…

… and into the waiting arms of Cooper Cartwright.