I'm making claw marks on the wall of my cell. Two long, miserable days. The guard who tosses me mealy kibble told me The Writer (my "owner," he called her, as if) and her husband are off on some fancy trip.
There's a one-eyed cat here named Jake. He's a lifer and is allowed outside. I think you call that a trustee. Anyway, he says he can spring me from this joint. We're making plans--uh-oh. Gotta lie low. The guard is coming back . . .
[Nothing like a king-sized bed with a duvet, featherbed, and mounds of down pillows. I can see the treetops from the little balcony. Birds are flying across the blue sky and singing. It's like being in a tree house. Heaven . . . I may never leave.]
I hope Ellsworth is having a great time, wherever the little traitor is.